


move fast now (or never)

by featherx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ...to lovers, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Minor Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Praise Kink, Strength Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22319692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: “Hello! Are you quite alright? Do you need to go to—”“Uurrgghhh.” The student lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, but makes no move to get up from the floor or even open his eyes. “Why… Why did you wake me up? I was sleeping…”Ferdinand stares at him. “What, in the middle of thehallway?”
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 37
Kudos: 263





	1. “that’s not fair. i don’t even know your name.”

**Author's Note:**

> another ferdihardt fic because i have no impulse control whatsoever
> 
> i've had the vague idea for a fwb college AU for months now but [these](https://twitter.com/DiOPPIO/status/1194196119997149185) [two](https://twitter.com/DiOPPIO/status/1201548892094910464) artworks by @DiOPPIO on twt were big inspirations!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What… are you doing?”

“What… are you doing?”

No response. Ferdinand feels panic bubble up in his chest—is the person unconscious? Knocked out, maybe? He can’t tell if the dark rings above the student’s cheeks are bruises or eye bags.

Either way, Ferdinand has to do something about this. Not only is this student blocking the entire hallway, spread out on the floor as is, but their face is also just on this side of familiar and Ferdinand would die of shame and self-loathing if he ignored whoever this is and left him lying there for people to step on. “Hello? Please wake up.”

Still nothing… Ferdinand crouches down and lightly pats the student’s cheeks for a good few minutes until the student finally stirs awake with a groan. “Hello! Are you quite alright? Do you need to go to—”

“Uurrgghhh.” He lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, but makes no move to get up from the floor or even open his eyes. “Why… Why did you wake me up? I was sleeping…”

Ferdinand stares at him. “What, in the middle of the _hallway?_ ”

“Oh, is that where we are? I hadn’t noticed.” The student—goodness, _what_ was his name, Ferdinand’s sure he must have heard it somewhere—scratches his cheek, then very reluctantly pushes himself up to a sitting position. When his eyes crack open, he stares at Ferdinand for a moment as if unable to believe what he’s seeing, then finally sighs. “Oh, well… this floor isn’t very comfortable anyway. I’ll go look for somewhere else to sleep… Goodbye now.”

After another yawn, he shuffles around and makes to stand up—Ferdinand straightens as well, at a loss for words. “Er—”

He doesn’t get further than that, because the student wobbles on his feet and nearly falls face-first on the floor again if Ferdinand doesn’t rush to steady him. “Oh! Just what is the matter with you? Are you about to fall asleep again?”

The student squeezes their eyes shut with another pained grumble. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Wh—talk like what—wait, are you really alright?” Ferdinand frets. He slings the student’s arm over his shoulders and carefully lifts him up to his feet—which does not work as well as he thought it would, because the student slumps onto him and remains as limp and heavy as a sack of rice. Ferdinand’s earlier theory that this student had gotten into a fight pops back in his head with newfound passion. “Are you suffering from blood loss? Is that why you were unconscious here!?”

The student blinks blandly at the floor. “What? No. I mean… probably not.”

 _Probably not._ Perhaps he’s suffering from memory loss as well. Oh, Ferdinand dearly hopes he doesn’t have a concussion on top of everything else. “Let me help you to the infirmary! It is only a short way from here. Ah, but could you also try to walk a little…”

Ferdinand manages to nudge the door to the infirmary open after a few minutes of awkwardly shuffling and stumbling through the corridors, the student absolutely refusing to do any walking himself—Professor Manuela is at the counter as always, picking idly at her nails. “Professor!” Ferdinand calls, speeding up his shuffle-stumble while the student hangs off of him like a koala. He actually looks like he’s fallen asleep again, but Ferdinand would rather not think about that. “Could you take a look at him? He seems a little…”

“What? Oh.” Professor Manuela unsubtly kicks an empty alcohol bottle under her desk and hurries to take the student (yes, definitely sleeping) off Ferdinand’s back. “Dear me, Linhardt, _again?_ This is the third time these past two weeks.”

The student—Linhardt, Ferdinand happily realizes—mumbles something unintelligible in response. If it was in response at all, and not just him talking in his sleep.

Professor Manuela shakes her head. “Thanks for bringing him here, Ferdinand. Where did you find him? Give me three guesses… the hallway?”

“Ah—er—yes. This happens… often?”

“Often enough. He’s always passing out from exhaustion, all of us keep telling him not to push himself so hard, but Linhardt here has always been stubborn when he puts his mind to it…” Professor Manuela sighs as she ushers Linhardt, now somewhat lucid, further in the clinic. “Come on now, dear, into bed you go. Here, your favorite infirmary pillow and everything.”

 _Linhardt…_ The name _is_ familiar, and now he remembers why: Hevring had been his mother’s doctor some years back before she passed. If this Linhardt is following his father’s footsteps and taking up a course for pre-med, it makes sense he’d be overworking himself so much; his family name is quite the burden to live up to. Ferdinand frowns in sympathy—he knows how that sort of pressure must feel like.

Ferdinand follows Professor Manuela towards the beds, where Linhardt has already curled comfortably up beneath the blankets and dozed off. “He’ll be fine,” Professor Manuela declares. “He just needs a nice long nap, and Caspar will come around to bring him back to their dorm before dark. You be off as well, Ferdinand.”

“Right! Yes. Thank you very much for your help as always, Professor Manuela.”

He sneaks a glance behind him as he goes, catching Linhardt’s sleeping face for a second. Oddly Ferdinand can’t help but think about his hair—it’s much longer than the others, and it looks smoother and silkier than even a girl’s, but it suits him. _Maybe… hm…_

No, no, Ferdinand shouldn’t be thinking about that. His own hair is long enough at just above his shoulders, and it would probably look awful if it got as long as Linhardt’s. It’d be a nightmare to fix it every morning, too!

 _Oh, why am I even thinking about this._ He turns away and finally leaves the infirmary, forcefully redirecting his thoughts to the upcoming midterms.

It turns out Ferdinand actually does see Linhardt everywhere. Linhardt just happens to specialize in deflecting attention the way a mirror reflects light, and only now does Ferdinand start actually _seeing_ him.

Like with his arm stuck in the vending machine, and Linhardt himself lying on the floor.

“L-Linhardt!” Ferdinand calls, dropping his bags and rushing to his side. Linhardt, for his part, barely even twitches. “What is… are you asleep _again?_ ”

Linhardt grumbles and blinks blearily up at Ferdinand. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes. It’s me.” Ferdinand gives his arm a cautious look. Have human arms always been able to bend that way? He surely hopes so, else they might have an entirely different problem at their hands. “What on Earth happened to you?”

“Mm… Well, I must have fallen asleep.”

“I can _see that._ ” Ferdinand waves a hand at his arm. “I mean, how ever did you get into this position?”

Linhardt scrunches his nose. “You really _do_ always talk like that.”

“There is certainly a more pressing concern here than my speech pattern,” Ferdinand huffs. “Is your arm truly stuck? You cannot get it out at all?”

Linhardt gives his arm a perfunctory tug. Absolutely nothing happens. “No wonder I fell asleep,” he muses, more to himself than to a baffled Ferdinand. “It doesn’t hurt at all, at least.”

“Er.” Ferdinand stares blankly down at him. What can he possibly do to help? Now that he’s here, he doesn’t exactly want to leave Linhardt in this predicament, though Linhardt looks perfectly content to keep lying here and fall asleep again. Hm… “Perhaps… lotion? Lotion might help, right?”

“I wouldn’t want to waste lotion for something like this,” Linhardt flippantly remarks. “It would be much more useful in other situations.”

“Now is not the time to be thinking about moisturizing!” Ferdinand berates. At Linhardt’s confused expression, Ferdinand slowly adds, “What else do you use lotion for? In any case, do you have any on hand right now? If not, I shall go ask… er, who could I ask…” Edelgard pops in mind, but asking his academic rival for help would be beyond embarrassing. And having to explain _why_ he needs lotion would just take much longer than necessary.

Linhardt shakes his head. “What else do you use lotion for, he says… ugh. There’s some in my bag, if you absolutely must.”

“Oh! Perfect, then. Why did you not apply some yourself before I arrived?” Ferdinand asks, crouching down to open Linhardt’s bookbag, abandoned just beside Linhardt himself. There are textbooks, notebooks, a well-worn wallet, and several sheets of loose paper, but no lotion to be found. “Um, where might it be? Is it in another pocket?”

“Give it here.” Linhardt grabs his wallet, makes Ferdinand open it, and then fishes out a small sachet from one of the folds. “Here you go. It should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

Ferdinand brightens. “A friend of mine once did this exact thing, so it should be—wait.” He peers closer at the label of the sachet, and promptly drops it to smack on Linhardt’s face. “This— _This is not lotion!_ ”

“It’s _close enough,_ ” Linhardt grumbles, shaking his head. The sachet of—of—Ferdinand does not even want to say it—falls onto the floor, looking as innocent as can be. “It serves the same purpose for this situation anyway, doesn’t it? Besides, you’re the one who wants to help so badly…”

“E-Excuse me for being a decent human being.” Ferdinand gingerly picks the sachet back up with the tips of his fingers, feeling dirty just touching it again. “I… Er… Ah… Will this truly work?” He’s only ever heard of these from other people, having never actually seen—much less _used—_ one for himself. The question of why Linhardt even has one of these in his wallet comes to mind, but just thinking about hearing the possible answer to that already has his face burning.

Linhardt manages a half-shrug. “Not in love with the idea. But thinking about it, I suppose I would really like to get back to bed now…”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon?”

“And so?”

Ferdinand sighs, and very slowly rips the sachet open. “I can’t do this.”

Linhardt stares at him. “It’s just lu—”

“Don’t _say it!_ ”

“Christ. You do know there’s nothing dirty about it? It isn’t like I’ve already used i—”

Ferdinand makes a distressed noise and haphazardly pours—the thing—onto his hand, trying to ignore the coldness. He reaches into the vending machine slat, keeping his eyes firmly closed, and lathers _it_ over as much of Linhardt’s arm as he can. “Th… um… There…”

Linhardt frowns and wriggles his arm around, while Ferdinand excuses himself and sprints for the nearest washroom. He sticks his hands under the faucet, telling himself he had done absolutely nothing wrong and that he has, in fact, done the complete opposite—after all, he had helped out a fellow student in need, even if he _had_ to use a very unorthodox tool to do so—but dumps half the contents of the bottle of hand soap onto his palms anyway.

When he returns, hands cleaned as thoroughly as possible, Linhardt is slumped against the vending machine, eyes half-closed but arm fully out. “It worked!” Ferdinand exclaims, previous discomfort replaced by relief.

Linhardt blinks sleepily. “Oh. Right, yes, so it did. Thanks very much. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Were you really hoping to save th… that… for something?” Ferdinand cautiously asks, stepping forward to stand beside Linhardt. “I’m sure there are… more around campus…”

Linhardt waves a dismissive hand. “Of course there are more around campus. My dorm is right there, after all.” Before Ferdinand can do much more than splutter incomprehensibly, Linhardt stands and yawns, stretching his arms above his head. There’s a bar of chocolate in one of his hands, which Ferdinand realizes must be what he had gone so far in the machine for. “Well, I should be off now. It was only morning when I fell asleep, so who knows how many classes I’ve got left…”

 _Morning?_ Ferdinand almost parrots in shock. “Are you sure you are alright? You will not fall asleep again, Linhardt?”

Linhardt’s nose wrinkles. “You know my name?”

“Oh. Yes. Professor Manuela mentioned it, last time.”

“Hmm. That’s not fair. I don’t even know yours.” Linhardt leans in a little. Even with his eyes still half-lidded, Ferdinand can see what color they finally are—blue, a deep shade that reminds him of the ocean depths. “Won’t you tell me?”

Ferdinand blinks, which probably makes him look incredibly stupid. Great going, he tells himself. “I-It’s Ferdinand. Aegir.”

Linhardt finally deigns to smile, though it’s barely more than an upwards quirk of his lips. “Alright. I’ll be sure to remember that. It’s the least I can do, since you’ve helped me twice now. Well, see you around, Ferdinand.”

“Oh, yes…”

But Linhardt’s already turned around and walking away, tucking his chocolate in his coat pocket. Ferdinand stares after his retreating back, not quite sure of what had just transpired.

So, there. Ferdinand still sees Linhardt around every now and then, dozing off at a library table or sitting on a bench with a book propped up on his lap. Rarely ever does Linhardt see him back, though that’s probably because he seems to devote his attention entirely to whatever he’s doing, whether it be sleeping or studying, the two things he occupies himself most with. It isn’t a big deal, Ferdinand tells himself. They’re acquaintances, both seniors, both busy with midterms. Linhardt’s probably forgotten his name already, thinking about it.

Ferdinand’s proven wrong when he stays up studying late one night, decides to take a shower to freshen up, and almost trips over something in the communal bathroom. The _something_ turns out to be a very familiar _someone._

“ _Linhardt!?_ ” he yelps, stumbling away from him. He’s lying face-down on the floor, entire body stretched out to its full length, and looking disconcertingly similar to a corpse.

With a now-familiar groan, Linhardt rolls over and blinks up at Ferdinand. He yawns, rubs his eyes, and says, “Oh, it’s you again.”

“You’re asleep _here?_ ” Ferdinand gawks, scooping up his towel he had dropped. Linhardt’s eyes follow the motion, looking as blank as a dead fish’s. “How did it happen this time? Please do not tell me you collapsed again! Exams are terribly near, and it would do you little good to overwork yourself!”

Linhardt sighs and sits up, only to frown and clutch his head. “M… Maybe? I don’t remember… I must have gone here for some reason, but now I only remember the pages I’ve still yet to study…”

“Academics are not everything.” Ferdinand offers his hand, and Linhardt takes it with a grateful nod, pulling himself up. “Let me see… do you have classes tomorrow?”

“Er… only one, in the morning. Then I’m free.”

“Perfect!” Ferdinand claps his hands. “I shall bring you some tea, then. That always helps me both wake up and relax. Do you have a favorite?” At Linhardt’s confused look, he hurriedly adds, “Or—do you not drink tea? I apologize for assuming. Do you prefer coffee, or…?”

“Oh, urgh, no. Not coffee, please. Tea is fine.” But Linhardt frowns a little, crossing his arms over his chest. “Though this is a little suspicious. No one is this kind without a reason.”

“Well.” Ferdinand crosses his arms back and tilts his chin up for good measure. “I am worried about you. Three times we’ve met and three times you’ve either overworked yourself to exhaustion or you’ve been stuck in some strange situation. I fear this pattern may continue until one day I am not there to help.”

Linhardt mumbles something Ferdinand doesn’t entirely catch, but sounds rather like, “Who said I needed your help anyway.” But then he shakes his head and says, “If you insist, then. I’m hardly one to refuse free tea, after all. And if you must know, I like angelica.”

 _Angelica…_ Ferdinand wracks his head for any tea shops that might sell that. Angelica herbs are hard to come by, but he’s sure Lorenz would know a place. “Not a problem. See you tomorrow, then!”

“Uh, yeah. See you.” A pause. “Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand tries not to look too surprised; judging by Linhardt’s teasing smile, he probably fails. “What? I told you I’d remember.”

“Yet you can’t remember why you went to the bathroom?”

“A mystery that remains unsolved. Well, goodnight now.”

Linhardt’s dorm is just down the hall from Ferdinand’s, something he probably should have known about three years earlier. Still, it’s a good thing it isn’t too far away—morning classes have left Ferdinand exhausted, especially with the professors all cramming requirements mere days before exams begin. Only Professor Byleth seems perfectly fine to keep diverting from their discussion to talk about their fishing adventures.

With newly-acquired angelica teabags in hand, Ferdinand approaches the door to Linhardt’s dorm, double-checks he’s gotten the right number, and raises his hand to kno—

 _Bam._ “See ya, Lin—holy shit!” someone yells. “Oh, fuck! Are you alright? Shit, I’m so sorry!”

“Caspar? Who’s tha—did you slam the door on someone?”

“Not on _purpose!_ ”

Ferdinand is vaguely aware he should be saying something in response to all this, but he gives himself another second to blink dizzily at the panicked face in front of him. Or rather, below—he has to look down to meet the person’s wide eyes. “Er…”

“I’m so sorry!” he repeats, ushering Ferdinand into the room while simultaneously sweeping away the very noticeable mounds of trash on the floor. “I didn’t know someone was there—fuck! Dude, your nose!”

“My what?” Ferdinand asks dumbly. Then something wet trickles down over his mouth, and the distinct taste of iron seeps onto his tongue. “Oh. My nose.”

Amidst his buzzing thoughts and the other student’s panicked yelping, Ferdinand hears a sigh from somewhere in the room. “Caspar, quiet down. Sit him down here, will you?”

“Right! Right.” Caspar tugs Ferdinand over to the edge of a bed with a giant blanketed lump on it. “Don’t you have to adjust his nose now? Shit! What if I broke it? He’s not saying anything!”

The lump shifts around until, of all things, Linhardt’s head pokes out from beneath the edge. Ferdinand nearly jumps back in surprise. “Oh, it’s you,” Linhardt says, blinking up at him. “You actually did come. Unfortunate you were just in time to be attacked by my roommate.”

“Ugh, I said I was sorry! What do we do?”

Linhardt pushes himself up to a sitting position but keeps the blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Ferdinand vaguely notes that it’s the most hideous shade of orange he’s ever seen in his life. “Get a damp cloth, please. And don’t worry, you didn’t break his nose.” He looks a little pale, but he doesn’t look away from Ferdinand’s face.

Caspar peers down at him. Ferdinand belatedly realizes he should probably speak, but everything is happening entirely too fast for his thoughts, much less his mouth, to catch up. “Oh, right, I didn’t. Yeah, it’d be hurting a lot more otherwise. Okay, give me a sec!” And he rushes off, presumably to the washroom.

“What just happened?” Ferdinand finally decides on asking.

Linhardt looks at him. “You tell me. You’re the one with the bloody nose here.”

Oh, right. Bloody nose.

_Bloody nose!_

Ferdinand claps a hand over his face, and winces when a mild sting of pain follows the touch. His palm comes away wet with redness—but it doesn’t hurt like how he imagines a broken nose would. “Ugh. Well, this is a situation. Please forgive the trouble, I did not mean to… er…”

“Didn’t mean to get smacked in the face by a door?” Linhardt dryly finishes. Unexpectedly enough, he reaches up to press down on Ferdinand’s nose with his index and middle finger, peering intently at Ferdinand’s face. “It’s no trouble. Anyway, this is as good a time as any to return the favor.”

“The… favor?”

“You did help me get my chocolate from that dreadful vending machine in the end,” Linhardt says, sounding begrudging. “So I do owe you this, at least. Sorry about Caspar, by the way. I can’t even say he isn’t usually like this, because he… _is_ usually like this.”

Ferdinand tries to nod, but remembers his nose (and Linhardt’s hand) and decides to hum in affirmation instead. “It is nothing. Really. Ah, yes, I brought you your tea! Angelica, as you like it. I meant to prepare it beforehand so you could have it right away, but I am glad I did not, else it would probably have spilled everywhere. So. Ahem.”

Linhardt doesn’t seem to have heard a word he’d just said, instead slowly removing his fingers from Ferdinand’s nose. Ferdinand hesitantly reaches up to touch it, but no blood falls. “There. Hmm… I wasn’t sure if that would work for you, but I’m glad it did.”

“What worked…?”

“My nose used to bleed every time I was too hot,” Linhardt explains, sounding bored already. “The methods my parents tried never worked, so I developed my own. Just blow your nose later, and a clot should come out. But—”

Caspar bursts in at that exact moment, flinging the door open with as much wild abandon as he had the first time around. A damp handkerchief with floral designs dangles from his hand. “Got it!”

“—that should help with making sure small things won’t get you bleeding again,” Linhardt finishes, catching the handkerchief Caspar throws at him. “Thanks, Cas.”

“No problem!” Then, to Ferdinand: “I’m _seriously_ sorry. I’ll make it up to you one of these days! Do you like coffee? Or tea? Probably tea. I’ll get you tea next time so you and Lin can have a tea party here again or something, without you having a bloody nose and all—anyway, I really gotta go, Ashe is gonna kill me for being late again!” Caspar yelps, as if having just remembered. “Bye, you two! Have fun! Stay off my bed!”

He shuts the door behind him with another deafening _bam._

“You see,” Linhardt says, placing the handkerchief on the bridge of Ferdinand’s nose, “he really is always like that.”

Ferdinand does his best to shrug without displacing the handkerchief. It’s pleasantly cool, though he wonders where Caspar had gotten it from. A girlfriend? “The tea,” he blurts out. “I should go, ah, prepare it—”

He cuts himself off with an _oof_ as Linhardt pushes him none too gently down on the bed. “Rest,” Linhardt orders from above him, standing up and shaking the blanket off his shoulders; it falls to cover Ferdinand’s legs. Ferdinand, for his part, is a little distracted blinking up at Linhardt. “You are obsessed with tea. I can prepare it myself, thanks. Stay here, will you?”

“Ah.” Ferdinand forces himself to look up at the ceiling instead. “Yes! Right. Yes. Stay here. I can do that. I am more than capable of doing that.”

Linhardt tilts his head down a little to look at him, something like amusement in his eyes. “I believe in you.” Then he takes the teabags from Ferdinand’s hands and heads out the dorm, stretching his arms a little as he goes.

When Linhardt returns, Ferdinand’s managed to blow the promised blood clot out of his nose with some spare tissue in his pocket, and also cleared out a small section on one of the small desks to place the tea on. “Your room is simply… indescribable,” Ferdinand manages. “How do you find anything in here?”

Linhardt sets the cups of tea on the table and settles back on his bed, wrapping himself up in the blanket once more. “Oh, you know. Just sniff it out, I suppose.”

“That works?”

“Only when I’m particularly hungry.” He yawns and glances at the handkerchief Ferdinand has left neatly folded up on the table. “Your nose is fine now?”

“Yes! The blood came out like you said.” Ferdinand smiles as he hands Linhardt his tea. He’s never tried angelica himself, as it’s harder to come across than other blends, but it smells rather pleasant. A bit sleep-inducing, really—perhaps he shouldn’t have brought this if he wanted Linhardt to wake up. “I should have expected no less from you.”

Linhardt gives him an odd look over his tea. “What?”

“You are studying medicine, are you not?”

“Oh.” Linhardt leans back and rolls his eyes. “I’m assuming you know my father. And I’m assuming you assumed I’m a med student because I’m going to follow him and be his little doctor puppet to continue the family business.”

Ferdinand blinks. “So you… aren’t?”

“Nothing like that. You’re actually unfortunately correct. I’m taking up bio.” Linhardt shudders as if speaking the very fact aloud disgusts him. “But I’m only doing it because it interests me somewhat. If I eventually do end up becoming a doctor, that’s just a bonus.” He glances over at Ferdinand, who probably still looks confused and tries to school his expression into careful neutrality upon realizing that. “Are you comparing me to my father in your head right now?”

“Oh, no! No, no.” Ferdinand shakes his head for emphasis. “I apologize, truly—I did not mean to offend! But, ah, your father—Doctor Hevring, yes? Does he not want you to…?”

Linhardt shrugs. “Of course he wants me to continue the business. I’ve got a clinic and a name to inherit. But that’s hardly _my_ concern—if I find it too boring or too stuffy, then I’ll simply refuse. It isn’t that hard to understand, is it?” The way he speaks makes it sound like this is a conversation he’s had hundreds of times before that his answers have become scripted and memorized.

“I… Yes. I suppose it is.” Ferdinand frowns. “But your father—”

“Let’s please stop talking about my father,” Linhardt interrupts. His voice is far from sharp, still as passive as always, but Ferdinand recognizes the warning in his words and decides to do as he says. “Hmm. How about you, Ferdinand? I don’t know much about you, apart from your obsession with tea—”

“It is not an obsession! It is an appreciation. They’re different.”

“—and how we seem to keep running into each other,” Linhardt continues, perfectly unmoved. “How about _your_ major? Hold on, let me guess. You look like a… hm… in the business department?”

Ferdinand clears his throat and tries not to look too proud of himself. “A common mistake! No, I actually am taking—”

“Political science,” Linhardt easily finishes, taking a sip of his tea and somehow making that action look smug. “You look nothing like a business major. Also, I’ve seen your readings.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand deflates, then draws himself up again at the light of amusement back in Linhardt’s eyes. “Well! In any case, I plan to follow my father’s footsteps as well. Er, in a manner. I aspire not to be like him, but to be much better.”

“How noble,” Linhardt comments, sounding completely disinterested. Ferdinand tries not to let that affect him too much—so far, Linhardt has only _ever_ sounded disinterested. “So that means I’ll be seeing you running for some position in government a few years from now. Good luck with that, then. If I remember, I’ll make sure to vote for you.”

 _Thank you_ is the standard response to this, Ferdinand knows, but he has to hide a wince at the words _position in government._ It’s been a terribly long while since he’s had to hear that same assumption from someone outside of family friends, and… well. “Yes,” he eventually manages. “I, ah… I appreciate that.”

Linhardt gives him a strange look, but doesn’t push the topic, quietly drinking his tea instead. Ferdinand can’t help but note the uncharacteristically perfect mannerisms—pinky up at just the right angle, chin tilted but eyes remaining level with Ferdinand’s, sipping entirely silent. “What else is there to… ah. Are you going to that party this weekend? It seems every one of us seniors has been invited.”

“Party?” Ferdinand echoes. The vague memory of a Facebook event invitation floats into mind. “Oh, yes, I believe I saw that, though I can’t remember a thing about it… It’s this weekend?”

“That’s what I said.” Linhardt sets his cup on the desk and lies flat on the bed once more, propping his chin up on a pillow. “I assume you’re not going, then? You don’t look like a party person.”

“No,” Ferdinand reluctantly agrees. “Besides, midterms will have just ended by then. The amount of chaos everyone will get up to will surely just give me a headache.”

“Hmm… what a shame.” Linhardt looks up at him innocently, and Ferdinand has to tear his attention away from how Linhardt’s lashes are entirely too long to be morally and ethically acceptable. “Neither Caspar nor Ashe are going, but I heard the food will be good, so I was hoping I could have a friend with me there.…”

He trails off meaningfully, and it takes Ferdinand another second for the realization to hit him. “Oh! You are… inviting me?”

“It isn’t really an invitation. You were already invited.”

“T-The point remains!” The word _friend_ bounces around inside Ferdinand’s head like the logo of his laptop on its screensaver. “Are you sure you want me there? I barely know the first thing about party etiquette! I’ve only ever drank alcohol twice!”

“Wow, two more times than I thought you did.” Linhardt peers at him, a teasing smile dancing on his lips. “Don’t worry so much about it. You’ve at least kissed someone, right?”

Ferdinand flushes. “Of course I have!” _Once, drunk, at a high school party you also didn’t want to go to,_ his mind begins to needlessly supply, _and Dorothea didn’t talk to you for months afterwards until you both had a heart-to-heart talk at two in the morning in Edelgard’s bathroom. After you helped fix her hair while she puked her guts out in the toilet. Both of you drunk. Again._

Linhardt rolls his eyes again, so hard it looks like he might roll them into another dimension entirely. “My bad. Ever kissed someone _sober?_ ” he amends.

This time, Ferdinand has no answer.

“Aha. So I’m right.” Linhardt leans back once more, looking satisfied with himself. Smugness, Ferdinand finds, seems to be his natural state, aside from tired. “Well, you may not look like a business major nor a party person, but you do strike me as a good kisser. Am I right?”

“I—Um—”

“Did whoever you drunk-kiss report back about how you were? I mean, you must be curious.”

“No!” Ferdinand exclaims. Just remembering what Dorothea had said that night (“Maybe with enough practice you can improve, Ferdie, but right now—” oh, he doesn’t even want to continue this train of thought) has him flinching so hard he might throw himself out the dorm window altogether. “She, er, she never told me. So I have no idea. No idea at all.”

Linhardt frowns. There’s more disappointment in his expression than Ferdinand had expected. “Now you have me curious, too.”

“What? Why?” Ferdinand cries.

“It’s entertaining noting down all my friends’ kissing skills. Mostly for blackmail.” Linhardt rolls over to lie on his back rather than his stomach, and starts counting on his fingers: “Caspar is too enthusiastic. Ashe always smiles in the middle of it. And some others from high school are simply too humiliating to say aloud. I fear the secondhand embarrassment may kill me.” He looks up at Ferdinand again. “Personally, I’ve been told I’m fairly decent at it. Though I don’t exactly have anyone to confirm that, since everyone gets sick of me at some point in the relationship.”

Ferdinand frowns. “How could they? You are perfectly pleasant to be around, Linhardt!”

“You’ve met me exactly four times.”

“And? I shall not retract my statement.”

Linhardt smiles, easy and slow—and this one isn’t teasing or smug, just… a smile. Ferdinand hopes his staring isn’t too obvious, but it’s a nice look on Linhardt. “That’s kind of you, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand coughs and takes a sip of tea to give himself a moment to process his next words. “I, ah. I simply speak the truth.”

“But it’s a worry. If you don’t know how to kiss—sober—I worry for how you’ll be at the party. No one escapes the dreaded one-night stand anymore.”

“Who said I agreed to going to the party?” Ferdinand sputters. “And why is _that_ your biggest concern!?”

Linhardt pushes himself up to a sitting position, giving Ferdinand a suddenly intense look much more different from his previous placid expressions. “Let’s see it. Kiss me.”

“ _What? No!_ ”

Linhardt sighs in mock disappointment and flops back down on the bed. “Worth a try.”

“A kiss is a sacred thing!” Ferdinand scolds. “It is a sign of care and passion between two people! I could never so simply kiss someone I do not love!”

“It really isn’t that deep, but if you say so.” Linhardt wriggles around under the blankets until he’s more comfortable, curled up like a cat beneath it. “Well, kiss or not, you’ll go with me to the party, won’t you? The baked goods there have been calling my name since I saw that theology student’s post in the event page…”

Ferdinand sighs. His last experience at a party had been absolutely dreadful, but he supposes there’s little harm in going to another one. After all, this is different: he’s in college, not high school, and he will be much smarter this time around. For one, he will definitely not be allowing anyone to force alcohol on him. And for another, he will _definitely_ not be drunk-kissing a single soul in the place.

So he nods, receiving another genuine smile from Linhardt, and opens his phone to look at the aforementioned baked goods post. He might as well enjoy himself in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lin's little story about nosebleeds is directly from experience. same thing with his method of stopping them lol
> 
> next chapter: party night!


	2. “do i have to do all the work myself around here?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt shakes his head. “You’re drunk. After _one_ drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks lots for the kudos and comments!! they mean the world!!

Linhardt shakes his head. “You’re drunk. After _one_ drink.”

“I am not drunk! I am simply enjoying myself!” Ferdinand takes a bite out of one of the brownies he had taken from the food table for emphasis, though he’s not sure what he’s trying to emphasize by doing so.

“For your sake, I hope that isn’t one of the weed brownies.”

Ferdinand spits the chunk of food out before he can think better of it. The brown blob soars into the crowd of people dancing and raving in front of them, then presumably smacks into someone, because a scream erupts from the crowd seconds later. Ferdinand winces. Linhardt just shakes his head again. He’s going to get dizzy if he keeps doing that, if he isn’t already dizzy just being in this place at all.

The party had started out alright enough. Ferdinand had arrived at Linhardt’s dorm half an hour before their appointed meeting time, spent several minutes playing a fighting game with Caspar on his Nintendo Switch, lost all five rounds, and finally left the dorm an entire hour later than intended.

A little part inside Ferdinand berates him for being late, but Ferdinand does his best to ignore it—it’s _fine,_ it isn’t like anyone else is expecting him here. And anyway, he’s a _college student_ now, not five years old and being scolded by Father for being late to an event he hadn’t even wanted to go to…

He shakes the thought away, and fixes his gaze above him instead, where an expensive-looking chandelier swings. That looks dangerous. It’s probably going to be shattered into a million pieces on the floor by the end of the night. Briefly, Ferdinand wonders whose house this is again, then decides he doesn’t care enough to remember.

Linhardt settles himself on the couch beside Ferdinand, sitting perhaps just a bit too close for two friends, and pops open a can of beer. “I was kidding. Mercedes only gives her special ones out in private, not have them right there on the food table.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand stares out at the crowd. “Then did I just projectile-spit onto some innocent stranger for no reason?”

“I would be a little sadder about projectile-spitting a perfectly good piece of brownie. But, yes. You did.” Linhardt takes a sip of his drink, makes a face, then gulps a mouthful down anyway. “Don’t worry about it too much. Nobody’s innocent here, so whoever it was probably deserved it.”

Ferdinand frowns, popping the rest of the brownie in his mouth and chewing it forlornly. He had not previously known chewing a brownie could be anywhere near forlorn. “ _I_ would certainly not appreciate being assaulted by a brownie.”

“Yes, but that’s different. You don’t deserve assault by brownie.”

The phrase _assault by brownie_ is just absurd enough for Ferdinand to regain some semblance of sobriety, and he whips his head towards Linhardt. “Is this how all drunk people are like? Projectile-spitting chunks of brownie and then not apologizing for it at all?”

Linhardt gives him a look. “So you _do_ admit you’re drunk.”

“I—Well—That’s—”

“Like I said, no big deal. You were probably the last sober person here anyway. Look there.” Linhardt uses the hand not holding his beer to point at a figure dressed in black leaning against a wall, a can in one hand and what looks like a knife in the other. Hubert, Ferdinand realizes. The last person he expected to see at a party like this. “No one can deal with a party like this sober, least of all the poor guy. Let’s make a bet—by the end of the night, he’s going to have to clean up his broken chandelier.”

“His…?” Ferdinand looks up, stares at the chandelier for another few seconds, then almost throws his brownie back up. “This is _Hubert’s_ house!?”

Linhardt stares at him. “Were you just following me without knowing where we were going?”

“I—But—” It occurs to Ferdinand that this is most probably Hubert’s _father’s_ house, as Ferdinand remembers having grudgingly gone to Hubert’s place at one point during high school and being surprised when it had only been Hubert in a tiny, rundown apartment unit Edelgard had apparently helped him find. “Oh, this makes much more sense now. Alright, Linhardt. I accept your bet!”

“Hmm. I don’t like it when you’re so confident.” But Linhardt leans in closer anyway, looking up at Ferdinand from beneath his lashes, a teasing smile curling along his lips. Ferdinand blinks blankly down at him. The view of Linhardt from above is downright criminal. “You’ve only had one drink, Ferdinand? Have some more. One surely isn’t enough, even for you.”

“I—What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating a fact.” Linhardt holds out his half-empty can of beer, the one he had drank from. “You’re an awful lightweight. Suppose I should have expected that, though…”

Ferdinand huffs indignantly. “For your information, Linhardt, I can hold my weight perfectly well!” He takes the can, ignoring the Dorothea in his head groaning and burying her face in her hands, and downs the drink without tasting anything at all.

Beside him, Linhardt “whoo”s and claps without much enthusiasm. “Good job. I can’t stand alcohol myself.”

“Then why do you drink it?” Ferdinand sets the empty can on a nearby table, trying to ignore the way he can actually feel his whole body warming up even more.

“Hmm. I wonder. Why do people drink alcohol, if not for the taste, Ferdinand?” Linhardt rolls his eyes. “If only I genuinely liked it. Maybe then parties like these would be more enjoyable. Want something else to drink?”

Ferdinand leans forward. “What else is in here except for beer?” he asks. There’s an odd undertone in Linhardt’s voice, one that speaks more than his words, and he wonders if there’s a topic sitting just beneath his attention, one that Linhardt wants him to broach. But for now—are they even close enough friends to be talking about things like that?

Linhardt’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Hold on a moment.” He disappears into the crowd, then comes back a minute or two later with a glass of what looks like…

“I am not drinking that!” Ferdinand nearly shrieks. If it weren’t for the party music overpowering every other noise, he would probably have been heard throughout all three floors of the house.

“Huh? I thought you of all people would like it.”

“I—I—” Ferdinand can’t even bring himself to look at the yellow liquid any longer. If he does, he’s not sure what he’s going to do first: spontaneously combust on the spot or jump out the nearest window. “How could you take me for someone who—who _enjoys_ these sorts of things, Linhardt? What did I possibly do to make you even _think_ it!?”

“I have no idea what you’re—” Linhardt looks down at the glass he’s holding. “Oh. Really, Ferdinand?”

“W-What?”

“You think this is _piss?_ ”

Ferdinand makes a sound somewhere in between a dying bird and Hubert’s cat in the long process of throwing up a hairball. “What else could it be?”

Linhardt sits back down beside him, now even closer than before. The heat is almost overwhelming, but—Ferdinand would be lying if he said he disliked it. He’s not even quite sure why it feels nice, but then he’d also rather not think about that too hard, lest he discover something about himself he hadn’t meant to. “It’s _pineapple juice._ Calm down. I’m not even into that sort of thing.”

“O… Oh. Oh!” Ferdinand takes a hesitant sniff. Definitely pineapple juice. He had gone to the Senate once, and they had served him the worst pineapple juice in existence, so he’d never quite been able to forget its taste nor its scent, even if he doesn’t particularly like it. And anyway, it doesn’t smell at all like… “I… I apologize! That was very rude of me to assume! I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Linhardt tells him again. Ferdinand wonders how many times that’s been now, over the course of their friendship. “Just drink. You do look like a pineapple juice person. Or carrots? Maybe that’s just your hair, though.”

Ferdinand takes the glass and sips it. It’s a lot less sour than the one at the Senate had been, thankfully. “By that logic, you must like bitter melons.”

“You will never utter the word ‘bitter’ in relation to me ever again, thank you very much.” Linhardt opens another can, looking like he already regrets doing so. “I like sweet things, if you must know. Only the sweetest, only the sugary-est. It helps keep me awake.”

“That makes sense.” Ferdinand’s seen Linhardt at the same vending machine he had rescued him from several times since then, and always walking away with either a chocolate bar or a bottle of milk tea that was more milk than tea. He watches Linhardt drink from his can, his eyes slipping shut in what looks like a determination to ignore the taste, and tries not to admire the pale line of his throat as he swallows. “Ah… Er…”

Linhardt hums, turning to face him. His eyes are half-lidded, but less sleepy and more… “What?”

“Um, nothing.” Ferdinand busies himself with the pineapple juice to avoid Linhardt’s gaze. He’s wearing dark blue eyeshadow tonight, which is partly why it had taken them so long to arrive at the party, but Ferdinand can’t even be annoyed about that now when Linhardt looks so terribly good in the light like this. “Do you attend parties like these often?” he blurts out, just to have something to say.

“No, not really.” Linhardt sidles up even closer to him, practically pressed to his side now, and Ferdinand briefly closes his eyes and prays to whatever gods are listening for wisdom and guidance. “Only when I have someone I want to go with.”

“Er… So… ah…”

Linhardt sighs, then pulls Ferdinand up to his feet. “Come with me? There are too many people here.”

“Oh. Yes! Alright.” Ferdinand quickly finishes off the rest of the pineapple juice before following Linhardt further into the house… or, well, mansion.

It’s obnoxiously extravagant and reminds Ferdinand far too much of his own place, which he’d really rather not think about right now. He looks around anyway, noting the expensive, authentic paintings hung on the walls (several of them now stained with unidentifiable liquid and matter) and the painfully old-fashioned marble busts of who Ferdinand assumes are the previous inhabitants of the house (now drawn and scribbled over with various markers, paintbrushes, and what Ferdinand hopes is ketchup). Eventually they reach upstairs to the second floor, where a hallway of rooms greets them.

“Guest rooms,” Linhardt explains blandly. He’s been sticking entirely too close to Ferdinand throughout most of the walk, and Ferdinand’s head has been spinning far too much as a consequence. Or perhaps that’s the alcohol. Linhardt steps up and opens one of the doors, stepping in as though it were his own room. “You know I’ve been here more times than I can count by this point?”

Ferdinand follows behind, looking around the room. It’s sparsely furnished, but the bed is absolutely gigantic, easily twice the size of the beds in their dorms. “O-Oh. I… thought you did not… attend…”

Linhardt sighs, nudging Ferdinand’s arm slightly—Ferdinand turns to face him, and _oof_ s when Linhardt suddenly pushes him up against a wall, a long pale finger pressed against his lips. “Do I have to do all the work myself around here?” he asks, voice low and suddenly, dangerously sweet.

It occurs to Ferdinand that he could very easily push Linhardt off and make a break for it down the stairs, out of this house, and all the way back to his dorm before Linhardt will even make it down to the first floor. After all, even if Linhardt possesses enough strength to (reportedly) carry Hubert across campus, Ferdinand knows he can run much faster than Linhardt anyway. Also, Hubert is tall, but that’s all he has going for him. His overall muscle mass is probably lesser than that of one of Ferdinand’s readings.

In short: Ferdinand is entirely capable of leaving right now and never looking back, ever. So why isn’t he?

Is it maybe because Linhardt’s hands, firm on his shoulders, are rendering him completely immobile? Is it maybe because Linhardt is looking up at him from beneath his lashes again, the long lashes that brush just above his cheeks? Is it maybe because his heart is thumping wildly in his chest, screaming _yes, yes, come closer, come as close as you can,_ and Ferdinand can’t do a thing to shut it down?

Linhardt cocks his head to the side, hair falling just slightly over his face. “Well, Ferdinand?” he murmurs, and Ferdinand’s name in his voice has his heart jumping in exaltation. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. But you’ll have to tell me now, before I lose my patience.”

“I…” Ferdinand swallows. He’s never done this before. Dorothea had been a one-time, drunk, _friendly_ thing, and he’s never even looked at a man the way he’s looking at Linhardt now, the way Linhardt’s looking at him now, either. But—there are no feelings involved in this either, are there? They haven’t known each other long enough for anything other than this specific sort of attraction to develop, so… if he were to compare it to the last time he had done something even halfway similar to this…

Wouldn’t it be a drunk, friendly sort of thing, too?

Linhardt sighs softly, his breath tickling Ferdinand’s chin, and that snaps Ferdinand back to attention. “Alright. It’s fine. I’ll—”

“No,” Ferdinand says, “don’t go—” and he grabs Linhardt’s wrist, pulling him flush against himself, and presses his lips to the curve of his throat.

The gasp that escapes Linhardt’s lips is horribly gorgeous, and when Ferdinand slides his hands down to his hips, he lets out a little sound that Ferdinand can’t even begin to describe. “Why,” Linhardt mutters, his hands coming up to curl in Ferdinand’s hair, “I never knew—I thought you’d never kiss anyone you didn’t love?”

Ferdinand scrapes his teeth over Linhardt’s neck, feeling Linhardt shudder beneath him. “This isn’t kissing.” Is it? He can’t tell. All he knows is that he needs to show Linhardt that he _wants_ this, whatever it is, if only to feel the warmth of another person against him. He nips at the same spot until the pale skin turns a blotchy red, and Ferdinand hates how his heart leaps to his throat at the sight of it in the darkness.

“Ferdinand,” Linhardt whispers, “here—” He takes Ferdinand’s wrist and guides it down, down to—Ferdinand swallows—the heat between his thighs, one he’s only ever touched a scant few times on the worst of nights and the coldest of showers. When he doesn’t move right away, Linhardt cracks an ocean blue eye open, one of his hands coming up to touch Ferdinand’s cheek. “Do you not want to?” he asks, gently.

“It’s… I…” Ferdinand wets his lips nervously. “I’ve never… done this before.”

Both of Linhardt’s eyes widen for a moment before they become amused again, lips curving up in a small smile. “Not even to yourself?”

“I-I—Only a few times!”

“Then it’s the same. Please…” Linhardt sighs against him once more, and this time the air that brushes Ferdinand’s bare skin warms his entire body up much faster than any alcohol. “I’ve been wanting this for a while.”

 _A while…_ Ferdinand steels himself and finally, slowly unbuttons Linhardt’s trousers for him, just enough to take him in hand with most of their clothes still on. Linhardt shivers, shifting his grip to Ferdinand’s shoulders as if to brace himself; when Ferdinand gives him a few hesitant strokes, his grip morphs from light to vice-like, and a soft moan leaves his lips.

The sound spurs Ferdinand on, and he moves his hand faster this time, more confidently, letting Linhardt rest his chin atop Ferdinand’s shoulder so all his sweet, delicate sighs are right by Ferdinand’s ear. When Linhardt says his name, his voice drips of reverence, and it makes heat coil in the pit of Ferdinand’s stomach. “Linhardt,” he murmurs, and wonders what he sounds like to the other man. “This is… I don’t…”

“Don’t—ah—don’t talk now, please, just this once—” Linhardt cuts himself off with another low moan as Ferdinand twists his wrist in an attempt to shift his grip, and wetness drips down to soak his palm. “More—Ferdinand—”

There’s something hypnotic about his voice, and how he moves against Ferdinand, thrusting desperately up into his hand, so dirtily that it makes Ferdinand wonder what on _Earth_ he’s doing right now, he’s never questioned his sexuality before, and yet he’s doing—this, whatever this is. But he doesn’t want to _stop,_ no, that’s the last thing on his mind right now; all he wants is to _keep_ doing this, to hold Linhardt by his shoulder and twist his wrist again, so that he can see the utterly breathtaking view as Linhardt gasps and sighs and whimpers as he comes in Ferdinand’s hand.

For a moment, there’s silence, only Linhardt’s heavy breaths as he slumps against Ferdinand and the muted boom of the music below them. Ferdinand tries extremely hard not to think about the cold wetness on his palm nor the uncomfortable tightness in his own pants.

After what must be a full minute of Linhardt catching his breath, he finally pulls away just slightly to blink up at Ferdinand, his cheeks still prettily flushed. “For your first time,” he says, “you’re rather good at this. Suppose you learn fast?”

It’s Ferdinand’s turn to blush, probably to the roots of his hair. “L-Linhardt! I—I simply—”

“I’m teasing. Besides, it’s not like it’s a bad thing.” Linhardt swoops in to suddenly press his own lips to Ferdinand’s neck, just above his collarbone, and Ferdinand doesn’t quite suppress the appreciative sound in time. “You finished the pineapple juice, right?”

“W… What?”

“Just answer me.”

“I—Well, er, yes, I did. But why are you—”

“Alright. Good.”

And Linhardt drops to his knees before him.

Ferdinand is rendered speechless for a precious few seconds at the sight, so he doesn’t—well, can’t, really—stop Linhardt from undoing his pants and taking him in hand. But the feeling of Linhardt’s fingers, long and slim, wrapping around himself has Ferdinand jerking back to reality, and he stammers, “W-What—What are you… What…”

“What am I doing?” Linhardt finishes for him, seemingly taking pity. Ferdinand nods. Linhardt sighs, breath ghosting over Ferdinand again and forcing him to suppress a shiver. “Isn’t it obvious, Ferdinand? Unless… oh, don’t tell me this is your first time too?”

“I—Of course it is! When would I ever have… have…”

Linhardt doesn’t bother dignifying him with an answer, instead dragging his tongue down Ferdinand in a long, deliberate motion. The moan that leaves Ferdinand’s mouth is downright filthy, and he slaps his hand over his mouth to keep any more degenerate sounds from escaping again. Linhardt, for his part, only looks amused. “No, let me hear you. I want to know I’m doing well, after all.”

“But… It’s…”

“Embarrassing?” Linhardt shakes his head. “Really, Ferdinand. This whole situation will likely be embarrassing in the morning. You might as well completely and fully embarrass yourself now, then regret it completely and fully as well tomorrow.”

Ferdinand can’t really register anything else after the first word of that sentence, because Linhardt takes him in his mouth while Ferdinand’s still trying to process the rest of what he’d said, and then all his thoughts fly straight out of his brain. His hands automatically go down to grab onto Linhardt’s long hair, the perfect length to pull at when Linhardt’s tongue swirls around him almost hungrily. “ _Linhardt,_ ” Ferdinand gasps, rough and ragged, “you—ah, that’s—”

Linhardt hums around his mouthful, and Ferdinand tugs on his hair harshly—he’s not sure if he had meant to discourage Linhardt from doing that again, but evidently it does the exact opposite, because Linhardt only moans harder and takes him in deeper, his hands coming up to grip Ferdinand’s thighs. “G… Good,” Ferdinand whimpers, because he thinks he has to say _something,_ “you’re so—good, Linhardt, I…”

His next words, whatever they would have been, are replaced by a low groan when he feels himself hit the back of Linhardt’s throat. When he looks down, Linhardt’s eyes are half-lidded and damp with unshed tears, and Ferdinand doesn’t stop himself in time from bucking his hips into Linhardt’s mouth—and instantly has to brace himself against the wall before he does it again and ends up choking Linhardt somehow. But his mouth feels so sinfully _good_ around him, hot and wet and all Ferdinand wants to do is move hard and fast and see how Linhardt looks when he—

The heat around him disappears, and Ferdinand looks blearily down to see Linhardt pulling away slightly, a thin string of saliva still connecting his swelling lips to Ferdinand. “Again,” he says, voice hoarse.

“What—?”

“You don’t have to worry. Fuck my mouth.”

Ferdinand makes an indescribable noise. “Don’t—You don’t need to be so c-crude!”

Linhardt narrows his eyes, wiping not-so-discreetly at the tears. “Just do it,” he says—orders, really—then takes Ferdinand back in his mouth.

The sudden heat kicks him back into action, and he unthinkingly moves again, gasping brokenly when he feels himself back in his previous position, Linhardt’s hands tight around his thighs. “Are you sure,” he asks, though it doesn’t come out sounding like a question at all—Linhardt doesn’t bother with responding, instead hollowing out his cheeks and moving his grip from Ferdinand’s thighs to—

Ferdinand whines— _whines,_ this is beyond humiliating—and scrabbles for purchase at Linhardt’s hair when he feels a cold finger press against him from behind. “Linhardt— _Linhardt,_ I—I—”

Linhardt hums around him again, and then—

Ferdinand is made briefly aware the choked gasp he hears is coming from _himself,_ because he’s never sounded as terribly embarrassing as this before. The wave of pleasure surges, crests, then slowly subsides, leaving him shaky and sweaty and absolutely exhausted. Linhardt pulls away, delicately licking his lips clean of the white that trickles down his chin. “As I thought,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Ferdinand, “pineapple juice really does the job.”

Ferdinand collapses onto the nearby bed, only just remembering to button up his trousers before he has to look at himself any longer. “You—Did you _plan this?_ ”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Linhardt kicks off his shoes and clambers up to the bed with him, already beginning to snuggle under the covers. “Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep now. If somehow you’re still up for more, my wallet’s in my pocket. Goodnight.”

“What? Wait! What? Here? You’ll be sleeping _here?_ ” Ferdinand sputters, deciding to focus on that part of the sentence rather than just about everything else.

“Don’t worry. Hubert knows.”

“ _Hubert what?_ ”

Linhardt yawns, and when he speaks, Ferdinand recognizes the quality of his voice that tells him there’s no hope in getting Linhardt to stay awake for any longer than another second. “We can talk about it in the morning, Ferdinand. Again: goodnight.”

Silence—followed soon after by deep, even breathing Ferdinand has come to regard as familiar, almost comfortingly so. Linhardt really has fallen asleep already… wait. Had he said _in the morning?_ Does he mean to sleep here in one of Hubert’s father’s guest rooms for the rest of the night!? Ferdinand had been planning to just wait until Linhardt woke up and then get back to their dorms, but he can’t possibly leave Linhardt alone in such an unfamiliar place! He might… might be…

Ferdinand decides against continuing that train of thought.

Still, he doesn’t want to leave Linhardt here by himself, even if he and Hubert seem to be friends… actually, Ferdinand wouldn’t want anyone except Edelgard to be alone with Hubert, friends or not. So… what? Should Ferdinand just sit here and wait until morning? Just the thought of staying awake when there’s a perfectly sizable bed here already has him feeling sleepy, and the sudden, bone-deep exhaustion doesn’t help.

He tiptoes over to the door and peers out. There’s no one else in the hallway—yet, probably. So—surely a short nap won’t hurt, will it? He’ll just have a few hours of rest, then get up and… do something about the situation. There. That doesn’t sound so bad.

After locking the door, Ferdinand crawls back onto the bed, making sure to stay as far away from Linhardt as possible—which is hard, because Linhardt’s already sprawled out and taking up an unbelievable amount of space. Ferdinand sighs, decides it’s only right to let Linhardt hog the blankets, and tries to make himself as comfortable as possible.

Just a few hours. Then—he yawns, eyes slipping closed—then he can think about what to do next…

Ferdinand awakes to a buzzing in both his head and his pants pocket.

He fishes his phone out through sheer willpower, because the second he moves, his head _explodes_ with pain he had sworn never to let himself be subjected to since high school. He groans as he keeps his eyes shut and blindly answers the call, hoping it’s just Lorenz asking where he is. “H—”

“ _Ferdie!_ What _happened_ to you!” Dorothea shrieks from the other end. Ferdinand nearly falls off the bed entirely. “You didn’t answer me if you got back safe after your party, and you know I don’t trust Hubert with your well-being! Or anyone’s well-being. Including himself. So!? Where are you? _Please_ don’t tell me you’ve been drugged, or kidnapped, or in some stranger’s bedroom, or—or all three!”

Ferdinand sighs, trying to bury himself further in the warmth of the bed. His dorm is nowhere near the level of comfort this single guest room is on, and he wants to savor it for as long as possible. “I am fine, Thea, thank you for worrying—has it really been that long?”

“Has it been that long—it’s almost 10!”

“10… pm?”

“Oh my God,” Dorothea says, “you’ve been drugged. There’s no other explanation—have you even opened your eyes?”

Ferdinand grudgingly cracks his eyes open. The first thing he registers is darkness, which makes him instantly want to say, _yes, I have, and it’s still perfectly night out,_ until he realizes the darkness is more of a dark green, and it’s only when he moves back a little that he sees he had buried his face in a mess of long, tangled locks that smell faintly of lavender. He knows this shampoo—Lorenz had gone through a very long phase of trying out every single brand in the nearby grocery store, and this one had lasted a little longer than the rest. Ferdinand takes another sniff, not quite sure why he does it, and sort of wishes Lorenz had stuck with this one rather than with the rose-scented shampoo he uses now, because he thinks he likes lavender much more than…

Wait. This really is not the problem here. The problem is—

Ferdinand instantly pulls away from Linhardt, doing his best to ignore the shock of cold as he scrambles to get off the bed. When had he gotten so close!? And—he looks around wildly— _when had it gotten so bright out?_

“Ferdie?”

“I am in a stranger’s bed,” Ferdinand blurts out, trying to decide whether to stare shell-shocked at the sun outside the window or Linhardt on the bed, mumbling in his sleep and rolling over to occupy the space Ferdinand had just been in. “I am in a stranger’s bed,” he repeats.

“But were you drugged!? Or kidnapped?”

“I think there was something in that pineapple juice?” Ferdinand squeaks.

A short pause. “Ferdie. Are you in bed with a man?”

“Er… Ah…”

“Okay. Alright. I will take that as a yes. Anyway, no, there probably wasn’t anything in the pineapple juice. It’s just pineapple juice. It makes you-know-what taste better.”

Ferdinand blinks, trying to regain his normal thought process while also trying to wave his headache away. “I… don’t know what?”

Dorothea groans. “This is hopeless. And embarrassing. I really don’t want to talk about your sex life with you over the phone, it’s too boring, I need every single detail once we both have time to meet up!”

The very thought of saying so much as a single word about what happened last night to _Dorothea_ makes Ferdinand crave for death. “Please, no—”

“But you _are_ fine, right?”

“I, well… aside from the hangover, yes.”

“And the sexuality crisis, I presume,” Dorothea muses. “Okay, well, I gotta get going, rehearsal’s in five—see you, Ferdie!” She hangs up right after someone begins shouting over the line, and Ferdinand lets his hand drop back down to his side.

And stares, once more, at Linhardt still on the bed.

So he had slept for the entirety of the night, then, rather than the few hours he had promised himself. Which is just great, really, absolutely wonderful. It’s the weekend, so he at least knows he hasn’t accidentally cut a morning class, but still—how could he have let his guard down so terribly like that? Probably because the exhaustion from last night has transformed into the kind of contentment that only… doing _that…_ can bring about.

Ferdinand carefully climbs back on the bed and starts patting Linhardt’s cheeks to wake him up, as he’s now grown used to doing. “Linhardt.” He swallows—saying Linhardt’s name so normally now, after how he had used it last night… “Please wake up.”

“Nngh… later…”

“It is stupendously late! Hubert is doubtless going to skin us alive if we stay here any longer.” Oh, God, Hubert. If Ferdinand makes eye contact with the man while very obviously having just woken up in a guest room that was most definitely not his, he might just die of shame.

Linhardt grumbles but finally opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at Ferdinand. The sight is all too reminiscent of last night, and Ferdinand hastily averts his gaze to focus on a spot just above Linhardt’s eyes instead. “Aw, look at you,” Linhardt mock-coos, “you’re _embarrassed._ ”

“Wh—Well, who—who wouldn’t be, after something like that!?” Ferdinand protests, pulling away from Linhardt as Linhardt yawns and stretches in place like a cat. “I can’t believe you can act so… blasé about this.”

“Big word.” Linhardt sits up slowly, massaging his forehead. The blankets pool on his lap, and Ferdinand can’t quite look entirely away from the dark mark on Linhardt’s neck. The knowledge that _he_ had done that makes him want to both shy away even further from Linhardt and come as close as they had been last night again. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I thought we established that?”

“Absolutely _nothing_ was established last night.”

“Huh. Okay. Guess we were both excited, then, if we forgot about it.”

Ferdinand shakes his head. “No, you just fell asleep immediately before we could talk about a single thing!”

“Ugh… okay, okay.” Linhardt reaches beneath the blankets, fiddling with something underneath, and it takes Ferdinand a second to realize he must be buttoning his trousers back up. Oh, lord, Ferdinand had cuddled him when he hadn’t even… “Ever heard of a friend with benefits, Ferdinand?”

“I… Er, yes, I know what that is.”

“Great. There’s your answer.”

They stare at each other blankly. “Answer to _what,_ exactly?” Ferdinand presses.

“To what we are?” Linhardt returns. He runs a hand through his hair, slow and languid, and the way his hair tumbles down his shoulders and curls just slightly upwards at the ends should be outlawed. “It isn’t that deep. We’re friends who also fuck. And… that’s kind of it. Unless you don’t want to, and last night can be a one-time thing?”

He asks so genuinely, as if he actually _does_ care about what Ferdinand wants, and that gives Ferdinand pause. He’s had very few relationships before, and he had always kissed them on the cheek and nothing else—and most importantly, they had also all been _women._ He doesn’t know if he should be surprised about this or not, really, because he’s caught himself staring at men a few times and appreciating their arm muscles, but—well, it had always just been strangers on the street or models on fashion advertisements, and never… something like _this._

Dorothea used to tease him for his relative inexperience in romance when they had been in high school, when every single student around him had been flinging themselves into relationships Ferdinand couldn’t make heads nor tails of—if neither party loved each other, what was the point? He still thinks that now, and he’s made it through three and a half years of college relatively unscathed, but…

He looks back at Linhardt, at one of his few friends, and wants terribly to reach for his sleep-warm skin again, to run fingers through his locks, to litter his neck with only the darkest of marks. This isn’t love, but—it wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Friends who also… do that,” Ferdinand agrees. “I… I suppose I would not be… averse to it?”

“On second thought, maybe not. I can’t possibly do this with someone who can’t even say _fuck._ ”

Ferdinand bristles. “I can say it perfectly fine!”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Then say it.”

A short pause.

“Now is not the time to be talking about this,” Ferdinand stammers out, ignoring the frustratingly adorable way Linhardt’s eyes crinkle when he laughs. “We must leave! Who knows if Hubert is standing right outside the door, ready to murder us both.”

“Well, we’ll never know now with how loud you’re talking.” Linhardt slides off the bed, toeing his shoes back on. “Perhaps he’s moved to waiting by the staircase so he can launch a better surprise attack.”

They creep slowly out the room, down the stairs, and across the hallways of the first floor—somewhat reassuringly, there are still people lying unconscious on couches and carpets, and one notable sophomore passed out atop the kitchen table. At least Ferdinand knows he and Linhardt aren’t the only ones who had woken up (well, _will_ wake up, in others’ cases) late. They pass by the couch they had sat on last night, now covered by several other bodies and with the chandelier smashed to pieces just beside it.

“I win the bet,” Ferdinand whispers.

He means to explain when Linhardt looks at him oddly, but nearly screams when someone clears their throat behind them. Hubert, apparently having materialized out of nowhere and dressed in the same clothes as last night, stares unimpressed at the both of them. “So it’s you,” he says, looking directly at Ferdinand. “I never imagined.”

“Y-You—” Ferdinand flushes. “This is none of your business!”

“This is my father’s house. _Everything_ is my business.” Hubert turns to face Linhardt, who seems rather unbothered and ready to fall asleep on the spot if he stands still for another second longer. “And you. I admit, I rather underestimated you.”

Linhardt tilts his head. “What?”

“Nothing. Is the bed as dirty as possible?”

“No!” Ferdinand bursts. Not a single unconscious person in the room stirs, thankfully. “We—There is nothing on that bed! Not a single… anything!”

Hubert clicks his tongue. “How disappointing. And here I thought tonight would be the last straw for my father to finally leave me be.” Then he turns around and walks off, not bothering to give them a second glance.

Linhardt’s brow furrows. “What’s he talking about? What are _you_ talking about, for that matter?”

“Hubert hates his father,” Ferdinand explains, glad to steer clear away from the other topic. “He would never offer his own place for a party—not that his own place is even big enough for more than one person to stay in—so I assumed this was his own way of getting back at Mr. Vestra.” Ferdinand feels his lips pull down into a scowl just uttering the name. He’s met the man a few times throughout his life, which is a few times more than he wishes he had. “So, on that note. I win the bet, from last night! There is simply no way Hubert would clean up that chandelier if he could make his father do it himself.”

Linhardt hums in acknowledgement, giving the remains of the chandelier an assessing look. “You two are friends?”

“Err. I am not sure if I would call us _friends,_ per se. But we know each other, yes.” Ferdinand decides against telling Linhardt about everything else—how he, Hubert, and Edelgard have known each other since childhood thanks to their families, and how Ferdinand had stubbornly stuck by their sides no matter how many spats they had gotten into that by this point the other two simply have no choice but to acknowledge his presence.

Ferdinand still wants to pummel Hubert into a pulp sometimes, and he has never stopped wanting to be better than Edelgard in all things possible, but, well… perhaps they’re just a step down from friendship level? He really doesn’t know.

“Hmm, I never would have thought. You two seem like polar opposites, after all.” Linhardt pushes the door open, wincing at the immediate burst of noise from outside. “Will you be heading straight back to campus? There’s a café nearby that makes the best sweets…”

“Oh?” Ferdinand isn’t much of a sweets person, but he wouldn’t mind some morning tea. Or, well, approaching-afternoon tea. His phone buzzes with a text, and he absently pulls it out as he speaks. “That would be nice. Do you know if they have…”

**Bernadetta [10:58]**

_ferdinand !! where are u? the meeting was moved today, remember?_

Ferdinand almost drops his phone. “Oh, no.”

“Oh no?”

“I have a club meeting in two—” Ferdinand checks the time again. “ _One_ minute—one minute! I’ve never been late to a meeting in the past three years!”

“Oh, no,” Linhardt agrees. “Can you make it back in time? It was a five-minute walk, but—”

“I have to go,” Ferdinand interrupts. His first instinct is to kiss Linhardt’s cheek, because that had always been how he left the houses of his past partners, but he holds himself back at the last minute and subsequently saves himself from the life of embarrassment that would have awaited him otherwise. He settles for touching Linhardt’s hand instead, just the barest of nudges enough for Linhardt to blink down at their fingers, startled. “Forgive me—see you, Linhardt!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but he thinks he catches a flash of disappointment in Linhardt’s eyes before he tears off towards campus as fast as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do also get drunk after one drink but maybe that's just me  
> i did also recently (4 days ago) go to our country's senate for a class trip and they did also serve some terrible pineapple juice (which is how i found out about how it apparently makes semen taste better, thanks to one of my classmates who knows too much)  
> re: bitter melons - i did also have to search what ampalaya is in english ;w;
> 
> next chapter: ferdie learns more about FWB etiquette!


	3. “i will hit you. in the face. with this book.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt sits up just enough to take a sip of tea, then instantly lies back down. It’s like his natural state is being horizontal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to get inspiration from annoying fuckboys to write sylvain in this part so there is that  
> again, thanks for the kudos & comments!! <3

Ferdinand makes it back in a minute; within those frantic sixty seconds, he has never been more grateful for his daily morning jogs. He does not, however, make it to the club room in a minute as well—it takes him two, but that’s because there had been an old woman making her way up the narrow staircase as well, and Ferdinand hadn’t had the heart to push past her.

“Ah, you’re just in time…” Bernadetta looks up from her notebook and blinks owlishly at him. “F-Ferdinand? Where did you come from? You’re all sweaty…”

“What?” Ferdinand laughs, sounding perhaps a tad hysterical. “I… I just… was busy! Very caught up with something. Nearly forgot about the meeting. Thank you, Bernadetta, by the way, for the reminder, it was terribly helpful.”

“Oh!” She brightens like a sunflower. “Okay, then, that’s good to know. Anyway, you shouldn’t have worried. Professor Byleth isn’t even here yet.”

For the umpteenth time, Ferdinand wonders how and why on Earth Professor Byleth, of all people, had been assigned to be the club moderator.

“Hey, Ferdie!” someone calls, smacking his shoulder. Ferdinand automatically moves away. “Were you late ‘cause of the party last night? I saw you were with Hevring, right?”

“Sylvain,” Ferdinand coolly greets. “I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

Sylvain pouts. “Why? It’s a cute nickname.”

“I know. Which is exactly why you should stop.” _Before I maul you like a dog,_ Ferdinand decides against adding.

“Aw, alright, if you say so,” Sylvain concedes, as he always does every time this happens. Ferdinand suppresses a sigh—he already knows the next time they meet, Sylvain is going to go right back to calling him by his Dorothea-exclusive nickname and completely forget they had had this conversation like he’s a USB stick with 4 GB memory. “But I’ve never seen you at a party before until last night! How was it? Did Hevring convince you to go or something? You two made a weird pair, that’s for sure.”

“Oh! Er…” Ferdinand fumbles with his books. He had stopped by his dorm just in time to throw a sweater on and grab his bag, and now he wishes he had just stayed there and skipped the meeting to avoid this conversation. “It was… fine. I wanted to, ahem… expand my… horizons. Yes. And Linhardt… happened to be there.”

Sylvain looks unconvinced, and Bernadetta looks concerned. “Are you… alright?” she asks. “You’re acting kinda… what’s the word, odd? You’re acting odd today, Ferdinand. And this is the first time you’ve been less than twenty minutes early for a meeting.”

“I-I’m fine! Odd? That can’t be!” Ferdinand laughs again, and, yes, he definitely sounds more than just a tad hysterical this time. “I’m perfectly fine, Bernadetta. Doing wonderful. Absolutely lovely.”

Sylvain looks like he wants to say something to that, but then the door swings open to reveal Professor Byleth walking in, and to Ferdinand’s relief the conversation is quickly discarded.

Still, throughout the meeting, Ferdinand can’t help but wonder if he _is_ acting a little… _odd._ Even if he is, that’s hardly his fault—he’s never even had many friends before, much less _this_ sort of friend. Is there proper etiquette he’s meant to follow with regards to being an official Friend With Benefits? What if he does so badly that Linhardt calls the whole thing off? That should probably be a relief or something, but that thought only has him want to start panicking right then and there. If he makes a mistake, or does something wrong, or acts out of place… would Linhardt throw him away, then? Would he just be someone to be replaced?

Fear tickles the back of his spine like a long-lost friend. Ferdinand stares fixedly down at his lap—he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle abandonment again, and from someone who seems to actually like him. Or tolerate him. But if he asks Linhardt what to do, that would just be a big neon sign telling Linhardt to end their tenuous relationship and find someone better. So—shouldn’t Ferdinand find someone else to ask? Someone with plenty of knowledge… and… experience…

His gaze lands, somewhat unwillingly, on Sylvain sitting across him.

Ferdinand waits on pins and needles for the rest of the meeting until there’s finally a lull in activity—Bernadetta is scribbling away in her notebook, Ingrid is trying to discuss their finances, and Professor Byleth is very obviously not listening. On the other end of the room, Sylvain sits amid a pile of books and papers, flipping through a battered textbook. Gathering as much courage as he can, Ferdinand takes several stilted steps forward, clears his throat, and says, “Sylvain? May I speak with you?”

Sylvain blinks and looks up at him. “Uh, sure? What’s this about?”

“First, please do not speak of this to anyone. Ever. I beg of you.”

“Uhh. S… Sure?” he manages, now staring at Ferdinand with obvious discomfort. “Dude, you’re scaring me. Are you gonna tell me you need help burying a body or what?”

“What? No! I would never!” Ferdinand protests. _And even if I were, I would be asking Hubert for help with that, not you._ “The thing is, I… need some advice on how to… um…”

The word choice must probably be a sign, because Sylvain perks up and leans forward, tossing his book to land atop a stack of papers and send it crashing down. Ingrid lets out an affronted shriek. “Let me guess. You got a girlfriend, didn’t you? You wouldn’t be acting all innocent and shy like this otherwise!”

“A… girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” Sylvain blinks. “I mean, what else would you need advice with? Gonna tell you now, but you are way better off asking someone else for help if this isn’t about romance.”

“No! I, er…” Ferdinand coughs. “You’re right. I did… recently… get… a girlfriend.”

He had never quite understood the phrase _lying through his teeth_ until right now, when he’s literally gritting his teeth and trying to keep himself from imploding.

“Whoa! Hah, I knew it!” Sylvain laughs, reclining back against his chair. “So? Who’s the lucky gal, man?”

Great. Now what? Sylvain had offered Ferdinand a convenient lie to latch on to, but he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to actually make it at all believable. Ferdinand isn’t even great friends with other girls in their year, aside from Bernadetta (who’s right there) and Edelgard (who would probably kill him if he even lied about something between them), and either way the lie would fall apart fairly quickly under Sylvain’s watchful eye. Which means the only option is…

“She’s… uh… She’s…”

Sylvain looks entirely too curious for something that isn’t his business. “Uh-huh?”

“She’s… an office lady,” Ferdinand stammers out.

Under more favorable circumstances, Ferdinand would have loved to imprint Sylvain’s dumbfounded expression in his mind so he could think of it every time Sylvain was annoying him. Unfortunately, the circumstances are far from favorable, and Ferdinand just desperately wants this conversation to be over and done with already.

“You… I… An office lady? An OL?” Sylvain repeats, baffled. “No way! How’d you score someone like that right under our noses, Ferdinand? You’re kinda scary, man!”

“Er… It isn’t as amazing as you think it is—”

“I’d kill to have a hot office lady as my girlfriend, dude.” Sylvain shakes his head, then looks back up with a mischievous grin. “So, you need advice, huh?”

Ferdinand suddenly, painfully wishes he had just asked Bernadetta instead. Even if all the advice she has to offer is probably just from trashy romance novels and her own fanfiction, he still wishes he had just asked her anyway. But he’s dug himself this grave, and he might as well do something about it rather than leave it be. “Um. Yes, please.”

“Okay, first—treat her well, alright?” Sylvain starts, putting up a finger. _Oh, God, he’s counting,_ Ferdinand faintly notes. “OLs love it when they’re pampered by their cute college boyfriends. For example, you should get her something like coffee or tea or sweets when she gets back from work. That’s your way of telling her you’ll always be around to help when she’s feeling down. Next—”

Ferdinand listens carefully, files away the important information in his brain and lets the more idiotic stuff soar over his head, until Professor Byleth finally calls the meeting to end just as Sylvain’s starting on number six. “Aw,” he sighs, “I was just getting to the good part.”

“The good part?” Ferdinand prompts, hating his own curiosity. He’s more than ready to get out of here and away from Sylvain, but he’ll take any bit of information he can get.

“Yeah!” Sylvain beams. “For sex positions, I’d suggest—”

Ferdinand bolts out of the room.

For all Ferdinand detests Sylvain, he can’t deny his first point had been fairly standard. _Treat her well…_ Ferdinand doesn’t think Sylvain’s ever bothered to follow his own advice before, actually. But it gets Ferdinand thinking about what to do anyway.

 _Coffee, or tea, or sweets…_ Linhardt doesn’t like coffee unless it’s been thoroughly doused in so much sugar and milk that it might as well be sweetened water. But he had liked the angelica Ferdinand had brought last time, and surely he must be getting sick of having the same chocolate bars and milk tea bottles everyday. Ferdinand still has to run some errands throughout the day, but he can certainly make time to stop by the grocery and find something a step up from cheap vending machine goods.

Anyway, even if this advice _is_ for people with girlfriends rather than people with friends with benefits, it should still count, right? Ferdinand’s just being a good friend, is all. And he owes Linhardt an apology for having to run out and leave him alone this morning.

When night falls, Ferdinand hauls his accidentally-too-heavy bag over his shoulder and heads for Linhardt’s dorm. “Caspar?” he hears a familiar voice grumble through the door, just barely audible.

“It’s me, Linhardt!”

“Ohh, so it’s you. Ughhh.” Something shuffles across the floor, and then the door clicks open to reveal… well… “You better be here for a good reason, I haven’t left the bed since this morning… what?” Linhardt scowls, adjusting the crooked reading glasses perched on his nose. “Something on my face?”

“Er, n-no!” Ferdinand stammers, stepping in and closing the door behind him. Linhardt flops back on his bed, already beginning to slide beneath the several layers of blankets.

“Really? Because I think you were staring.”

“Well. That’s just…”

“It’s fine,” Linhardt sighs. He pulls the covers up until his chin and retrieves an opened book that had been on his pillow, but doesn’t look back down at the pages. “I know I look like a mess. I did take a shower, at least.”

“You look perfectly fine,” Ferdinand insists, although he wonders if he should try to sound more believable; Linhardt’s hair is a complete mess, like it hasn’t been touched by a comb in years. If he were a weaker man, Ferdinand thinks he would have run a hand through it already. “In any case—have you eaten dinner? I brought something for you, but you’re not to touch it unless you’ve had something!”

Linhardt peers up at him, then at his bag. “Is that… chocolate?”

“Have you had dinner.”

Linhardt groans and buries his face in his pillow. “I had a sandwich earlier. It was a big sandwich. Does that count?”

“How big is ‘big’?”

A heavy sigh. “Fine. It was one bite. From Caspar’s sandwich. Who knows how long ago that was, too.”

Ferdinand shakes his head. “If it were earlier, I would have bought you something more substantial, but all the nearby stores are likely closed… You cannot study so hard and fail to take care of yourself! If you end up passing out from exhaustion again, all your hard work would be for naught.”

“You are doing an awful lot of talking when you should be feeding me that chocolate right about now.” Linhardt looks up at him, tilting his head back a little—the angle reminds Ferdinand entirely too much of… “I never would have thought you a tease, Ferdinand.”

“T—What—No!” Ferdinand sputters. “I am not—What are you— _no!_ ”

Linhardt grins into his book and finally closes it and sets it aside. “Did you bring anything else? That I can have _now?_ ”

“There’s—erm—There’s some tea,” Ferdinand manages, opening his bag with perhaps a bit too much fervor and nearly ripping the zipper right off. “I can, er, prepare it, and it shouldn’t take more than a little while, so—ahem! If you’ll excuse me!”

When Ferdinand returns with two cups of angelica tea, his cheeks are still faintly warm, and Linhardt is still sprawled on his bed in the exact same position as five minutes ago. “Caspar isn’t here?” Ferdinand asks, handing him his tea and looking around the room. It’s rather obvious that Linhardt’s roommate is nowhere to be found, considering the room is empty aside from them, but he really just needs something to say.

“Nope. He’s with Ashe.” Linhardt sits up just enough to take a sip, then instantly lies back down. It’s like his natural state is being horizontal. “I don’t expect him back until tomorrow morning, really,” he adds, giving Ferdinand a meaningful look.

“Ah. Er. Is—Is that so!”

Linhardt sighs. “What about you? Did you get to your meeting on time?”

“Oh! Yes, I did. Well, mostly. Though I was late by a few minutes, I was still earlier than our moderator. You know Professor Byleth? I simply do not understand what goes on in their head. It’s as if their true career is staring into space, and teaching is just a hobby,” Ferdinand rambles, not quite sure of what he’s saying by the second sentence. The mention of the meeting brings to mind Sylvain again, though, much to Ferdinand’s scorn, and what he had almost said before Ferdinand had made a break for the door.

 _For sex positions…_ Ferdinand swallows. Thinking about it now, maybe it would have been wiser to stay and listen. After all, he isn’t Linhardt’s _boyfriend,_ he’s Linhardt’s _friend,_ with _benefits._ There’s a marked difference between the two, and yet right now Ferdinand is acting the very part of a concerned boyfriend. Which he isn’t. At all.

“You’re blushing again,” Linhardt points out, sounding amused. Ferdinand claps his hands over his now-hot cheeks. “What were you thinking of, staring at me like that?”

“I—I was not staring!”

“Hmm. So, admiring, then?” Linhardt huffs a laugh under his breath when Ferdinand can’t think of an appropriate response. “I usually need to make more of an effort to get you all shy and flustered. Do you want to go again already or something?”

“Wh— _no!_ ”

“Good, because I can’t even get up right now. You’d have to do all the work.” Linhardt yawns, looking for all the world like there’s absolutely nothing wrong about what he had just said, then blinks at Ferdinand when Ferdinand goes perfectly silent. “Unless… you want that?”

Ferdinand flushes so hard he physically feels his blood shoot up to his face. “T-That’s not… I… I don’t…” Unfortunately, now that the idea has been planted in his head, all Ferdinand can really think about is how it would be like to—to, well, to do exactly what Linhardt said. To let Linhardt lie there, and have Ferdinand do the work, to watch him again as he…

“Oh,” Linhardt says, “so you do.”

“I—I owe you an apology!” Ferdinand stutters. “I left you this morning because I prioritized something that was not as important as making sure you got back to campus safely! So… for that, I am sorry!”

Linhardt blinks. “It really isn’t that serious, Ferdinand. I mean, it was a five-minute walk.”

“S… Still. I should… make it up to you.”

“Hm?” Linhardt smiles, and the way his lips curl upwards is just mesmerizing. “Well… if you insist. Go on. How will you make this up to me?”

Ferdinand sips his tea, just to give himself a moment’s pause to think his next words (and actions) through. And also to calm both his racing thoughts and racing heart. “You could take off the blankets, to start. It would make things easier.”

There’s no immediate response, and Ferdinand hesitantly looks up from his lap to check if Linhardt has just suddenly decided to die of laughter or something—and stares blatantly when he sees Linhardt actually _blushing,_ the red high on his cheeks and his eyes far more awake than usual. “Are _you_ flustered now?” Ferdinand exclaims.

“What? No.” Linhardt shucks his blankets off, turning his back on Ferdinand to studiously face the wall. “You… simply caught me off guard. It isn’t like you usually say things like that so boldly.”

“So… You are flustered. Shy. Embarrassed.”

“If you say one more synonym, I will—”

Linhardt stills when Ferdinand settles at the foot of the bed and touches his bare ankle—this view of him is nice, too, Ferdinand thinks, especially when he’s looking up at Ferdinand with a mix of surprise and embarrassment, a red flush creeping up his neck. “You’ll what, Linhardt?” Ferdinand asks, gently pushing him down on his chest when Linhardt attempts to sit up.

“I’ll—” Linhardt swallows, acquiescing endearingly fast under his touch. “You know… do… something.”

“Like what?” Ferdinand murmurs, inching forward to press his thumb against the bruise on Linhardt’s neck. It’s beginning to fade a little, no longer as dark as it was this morning, and Ferdinand wants to rectify that. Linhardt squirms beneath him, and when Ferdinand bends down to nip at a spot above his collarbone, he makes a pleased little noise. “What will you do, Linhardt? You need to be more specific…”

“I will hit you,” Linhardt mutters. “In the face. With this book.”

He tries to reach for the textbook he had set aside earlier, but goes instantly limp when Ferdinand pins his arm back down on the bed. “No, you won’t,” Ferdinand tells him.

“Ah…” Linhardt swallows and looks away. He’s _avoiding eye contact._ Ferdinand might just explode. “No, I won’t,” he agrees softly, the breathy quality to his voice something entirely new and just as intoxicating as the rest of him.

Ferdinand bites down hard on his neck again, hoping he estimates the strength behind the action enough; thankfully, Linhardt gasps in what sounds like more pleasure than pain, and Ferdinand feels pride bloom in his chest. A small part of him screams what he thinks he’s doing right now—after all, unlike last night, he’s perfectly sober and he’s the one instigating this rather than Linhardt, and in any other situation he doubts he would ever even imply doing something like this. But…

“What you did last night,” Ferdinand says, in one breath, “I want to—to, ah, to do it too. To return the favor, if you would.”

Linhardt blinks up at him, looking dazed. It’s adorable. Ferdinand wants to tell him to stop, before he flings himself out the window. “So… a blowjob?”

“Don’t _say_ it,” Ferdinand hisses, willing himself not to stutter and ruin the confident image he’s struggling to project. A flustered Linhardt is far newer than a Linhardt who teased his inexperience at every opportunity. “But, yes. That.”

“Oh. I… I mean, okay, I guess.” Linhardt folds his legs up to the knees, glancing away, the pink still stubbornly coloring his cheeks. “There’s nothing special about it. If you want, you could…”

Ferdinand retreats back to settle between Linhardt’s legs, tugging his pajama shorts down and suddenly wishing they had turned the lights off before this—seeing Linhardt now, hard and flush against his own thigh, is embarrassing _Ferdinand_ more. “I could what?” he asks. Just out of curiosity, he wraps a hand around Linhardt and strokes, once—and tries to keep his jaw from dropping when Linhardt whimpers and spreads his legs.

“Touch me,” Linhardt pants, “where I touched you. You know—” He kicks off his shorts entirely, looking pointedly away from Ferdinand. Which is good, because Ferdinand doesn’t think he can make eye contact right now without completely losing his mind. “You don’t have to go inside. Just… rub it a little. That feels nice.”

 _Oh._ Ferdinand stamps down the blush that threatens to climb up to his face—because, well, he’s certainly _heard_ of… of _that,_ but he had never thought he would have to know much more about it. Still, it had felt strangely good last night, so he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to try it on someone else—and besides, he had promised to return the favor, which means to do what Linhardt likes as much as possible. “Alright,” he manages.

Then he bends down and slowly licks a long, wet stripe down Linhardt, quickly backing away when Linhardt gasps and jerks his thighs forward. “F-Fer…”

“Don’t move,” Ferdinand tells him, gripping his waist where his shirt has ridden up, his skin still warm with sleep. Linhardt bites back what sounds like another softer, stifled whimper at his touch. “I told you. I want to take care of you.”

He licks him again and again, trying out the motions, each time slower and longer than the last one, until finally Linhardt hisses at him to _do it already, Ferdinand, please,_ and Ferdinand’s starting to feel bad for dragging it out for so long, so he finally takes him in his mouth. The effect is immediate—Linhardt moans lowly, his head tossing side to side—but for a moment all Ferdinand can really focus on right away is the taste. Salty, and a bit bitter—definitely not something sweets-obsessed Linhardt would like, if not under the influence of pineapple juice.

Now that Ferdinand’s come this far, though, what is he supposed to do now? He tries thinking back to what Linhardt had done last night and remembers the movement of his tongue, so Ferdinand imitates it as best as he can, surprising himself when Linhardt gasps raggedly and moves his hands to tug at his hair, murmuring his name under his breath. When he opens his eyes to look down and make eye contact with Ferdinand, Ferdinand does it again, bobbing his head and trying to ignore the taste, and he watches as Linhardt throws his head back with a high groan.

It’s a gorgeous sight, really, and Ferdinand sort of… doesn’t mind doing this again, if it means always seeing Linhardt this way, flushed and panting and saying his name like a prayer.

At the last second Ferdinand remembers what Linhardt had said, and maneuvers his hands to reach beneath Linhardt. It takes a bit of awkward navigating until he finds the spot that makes Linhardt jolt at his touch, so Ferdinand presses harder, rubs around the area until he can feel wetness dripping down his chin and hear Linhardt’s voice become progressively higher, the noises he’s making more desperate. Last night, Ferdinand hadn’t been able to properly see how Linhardt looked like when he came undone, but now—

Ferdinand hollows his cheeks. Linhardt cries out when he comes, burying his face in his pillow, and Ferdinand hastily swallows before he can taste anything. It still leaves a strange aftertaste in his mouth, one he certainly can’t imagine develop a liking for, but it’s tolerable.

Linhardt is still catching his breath when Ferdinand finishes wiping him off, pulling his pajamas back on him, and throwing the blankets over him once more. “Don’t you…” Linhardt yawns, blinking at Ferdinand. “Don’t you want me to do anything?”

“What?”

“You know. You could turn me around and use my—”

“Oh! No, no!” Ferdinand exclaims, feeling the blush he had successfully kept at bay for the past several minutes suddenly come back at full force. “I—I could never, Linhardt! And…” _Seeing you like that was enough._ “And I do not… need it. So it is fine. I told you, that was me returning the favor.”

Linhardt frowns. “I mean, if you say so.” He sighs as he shuffles over to make space on the bed, and Ferdinand stares blankly down at him until he realizes he’s being _invited,_ at which point he hastily climbs back up before Linhardt can retract the offer. “You know, you don’t have to be so awkward,” Linhardt says, reaching up to play with a strand of Ferdinand’s hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not like our relationship has changed any, has it?”

“Wh—” Ferdinand, unexpectedly enough, laughs aloud. “Yes it has! It has changed _quite_ a bit, in my opinion!”

Linhardt smiles back, slow and sleepy. “Okay, maybe it’s changed a little. But bottom line is that we’re still friends, aren’t we? That hasn’t changed, at least.”

Oh. Right, they’re friends. Ferdinand tries not to let the surprise show on his face—it’s been a long while since someone has called him their _friend,_ without any doubts or reservations or conditions like _but only if you stop talking so fast all the time._ No, Linhardt just… likes him, for some reason, enough to _want_ to be his friend (or, well, friend with benefits—same thing) for _him,_ not for his father.

“Right. Yes!” Ferdinand beams. “Friends. I apologize. It’s been too long.”

“What, since you’ve made a friend?” Linhardt asks. There’s no judgment in his voice, only a sort of genuine curiosity that must come from someone who understands him.

“I, well… Yes. In a sense. I have always only ever had a few people who like me enough.” Ferdinand leans closer, trying not to look too pleased when Linhardt moves to touching one strand to dragging a hand down his hair. It’s been getting a little longer recently—Ferdinand should get a haircut when he has the time. “Most of them are from high school or childhood, too. College has… not been very kind.”

Linhardt hums. “I see. I sort of get what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Everyone thinks I’m lazy and insensitive. Which I am.” Linhardt yawns again, waving away the protest Ferdinand had ready on his tongue. “Or… that’s just how I feel all the time, anyway. If something doesn’t interest me, I don’t get motivated. So, it’s the same thing as being lazy, right? And I don’t usually see the need to sugarcoat things. And that’s the same thing as being insensitive too, isn’t it?”

“Those are very different things!” Ferdinand argues, perhaps a bit too loud for Linhardt’s liking; he hastily lowers his voice back down to a normal volume at the scowl on Linhardt’s face. “Being lazy is… is being lazy for the sake of it. And being insensitive is being insensitive for the sake of it as well! There is a clear difference, Linhardt, even if you may not see it.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, I’m not really that interested in the technicalities of what people think and don’t think of me,” he says, voice already beginning to soften as his eyes slip shut. “I’ll sleep now. Again, if you want, wallet’s in my bag there on the desk. Goodnight, Ferdinand.”

“I am not going to—” Ferdinand sighs when Linhardt burrows his face in the crook of Ferdinand’s neck. Honestly, he should have saved his breath the moment Linhardt closed his eyes. “Oh, alright… goodnight, Linhardt.”

He’s not sure if his voice sounds a little too tender when he speaks, and if that’s a bad thing or not.

It’s sometime around five or six in the morning when Ferdinand wakes up.

It’s still too dark out to see much of anything, though based on how his arm has fallen completely numb, he can tell Linhardt hasn’t moved from his last position, still curled up with his head pressed to Ferdinand’s chest. But—Ferdinand winces—it’s no longer the weekend, which means Ferdinand has to get up and get ready for his morning class.

Surely he can spend another few minutes sleeping in, though…? No, the last time he had _slept in_ with Linhardt, he had woken up at an ungodly hour of the morning. He isn’t risking it this time when there’s a class on the line.

Through much shuffling and shifting around, Ferdinand manages to extract his arm from beneath Linhardt’s shoulders and prop his head up on a pillow before slipping out of the bed. He places the chocolate bars and milk tea bottles he had bought for Linhardt on the desk before closing his bag and tiptoeing towards the door, nearly tripping over several unidentifiable objects littered on the floor in the process.

When he looks back, the sunshine has just started to filter in through the thin curtains, dusting Linhardt’s sleeping face with the first hints of light. Like this, he looks ethereal, almost seraphic, and Ferdinand wonders what he had done in a past life to garner such favor from the gods who created him.

But no matter how long Ferdinand spends standing here and staring at him, Linhardt probably isn’t going to wake up. Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t tell him to stay a little longer either.

Ferdinand turns away and opens the door, shutting it behind him with a soft _click._

It makes sense, anyway. It isn’t as if he’s Linhardt’s boyfriend, in which case he would _have_ to stay longer. He’s just… his friend, with benefits. That’s all there is to them.

But it would be nice, Ferdinand thinks, if Linhardt wants him to stay anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: manic pixie dream linhardt


	4. “i want to become a loaf of bread…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I see,” Linhardt says, just as Ferdinand opens his mouth to speak, “you’re going to _cut classes._ For _me._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real summary of this is: daddy issues, the chapter  
> thank you for the kudos & comments as always ❤❤

**Dorothea :) [13:32]**

_then the bitch acted like im the one who stole her role??? HELLO???_

_i swear one of these days i am going to cut her up and no one will ever find the body!!!_

**[13:33]**

_Very eloquent_

**Dorothea :) [13:33]**

_thank u ferdie… very reassuring…_

_ok she’s coming gtg_

_btw ill drop by soon to hand u ur tickets!! u have to tell me abt ur love(?) life then xx_

Ferdinand has to hold back a smile—it’s about time for the annual play or musical Dorothea’s university performs, and the tickets are so cheap they’re practically free. He wonders what adaptation they’re doing this year—and who he should bring. He always just went with Edelgard and Hubert, but maybe this time he can bring Lorenz? Or perhaps—

He coughs at the sudden smell of smoke in the air, and waves the gray out of his eyes. _Ugh—_ is someone smoking? This is why he hates going in the campus’ parking lot, but if he wants to make it to class in time he has to cut through this shortcut—not that he really _wants_ to get to theology because the discussions never make any sense, and he’s sick of listening to the professor there drone on and on endlessly—

“Linhardt?”

Linhardt blinks and looks up from his shoes, a cigarette stick dangling loosely from his mouth. He plucks it out and gives Ferdinand a confused look. “Ferdinand. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t look as sleepy as he usually does, but then again Ferdinand’s too far to make out much more of his face. “There are stairs here that lead right to my next class—but, no, that is not my concern! What are you doing with… with… that!”

“With… what, exactly?” Linhardt tilts his head back. He’s leaning against the hood of a car that Ferdinand is fairly sure does not belong to him.

“You know. _That._ ”

Linhardt looks down at his hand, and then rolls his eyes so hard it looks headache-inducing. “Really? It’s just a bit of smoke, Ferdinand.”

“A _bit of smoke—_ ” Ferdinand sighs in frustration. How can he have been friends (with benefits) with Linhardt for so long and _not_ have found out somehow? Perhaps he only smokes every once in a while, and that’s why he doesn’t smell. “That bit of smoke can kill you, Linhardt. Surely you must know that.”

Linhardt huffs and turns away. “Yeah. I know. Sounds great.”

There’s something different in his voice, the usual placid, slightly amused tone replaced by something darker and heavier, and that gives Ferdinand pause. He’s never heard Linhardt like this before, and the worry over his smoking turns to worry over Linhardt, in general. “Did something happen?”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, but then Linhardt sighs and lets the cigarette fall, crushing it under his heel. “Talked to my dad. Terrible, as usual. Told me I would never get anywhere with how lazy I am, as usual.”

“Y-You aren’t—”

“I know, I know, I remember. But my father doesn’t think the same.” Linhardt stares into the distance, his fingers tapping a restless beat on his own arm. “Did I ever tell you about him? You probably only know him as Dr. Hevring. To me he’s just someone who’s never known freedom in his life, and wants to pass that down to his children. Well, child.” He shakes his head. “What more does he want? I’m already out of his hair, I’m already going for med, I haven’t studied this hard for anything since _birth—_ ”

He cuts himself off with a harsh exhale, and silence falls over them once more. Ferdinand doesn’t know what to say—Linhardt always seems so composed and collected, unaffected by everything, that Ferdinand has no idea what he’s supposed to respond with in this situation. Comfort him? Pat his back?

“I didn’t know,” he finally decides on saying. “I only saw him a few times, when I was a child. I… I’m sorry.”

Linhardt shrugs. “Whatever. It’s not like you knew. But—yeah. That’s why I’m here. At least I don’t smoke in people’s faces.”

Ferdinand crosses his arms. “So that is your… what, your coping mechanism? But I wish it did not have to be so self-destructive, Linhardt. Is there not anything else you can do to take your mind off things?”

“Oh?” Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting, Ferdinand?”

“H-Huh? What?” Ferdinand stammers. Linhardt laughs softly into his hand—and, well, it’s barely more than another exhale with just slightly more amusement than last time, but Ferdinand feels dizzy just looking at him anyway. “I-I was suggesting… ah! How about we go for a walk? That always helps me clear my mind!”

“A walk?” Linhardt sighs. “I thought you said you had class?”

Ferdinand blinks. “Oh. Yes, I do.” It’s his last class of the day, too. But… he doesn’t _really_ want to go to theo, does he? Professor Seteth is nice, but his lectures can put anyone to sleep, even if Ferdinand were jacked up on enough caffeine to kill him. Even the readings are more interesting, and one read-through guarantees at least a passing score on the exam. So…

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to cut _one_ class. He hasn’t cut since sophomore year, after all. And he’s cutting for a _good_ cause, to help Linhardt with his problem, not just to go… do whatever it is others do when they cut classes. So. It’s perfectly fine, right?

“Oh, I see,” Linhardt says, just as Ferdinand opens his mouth to speak, “you’re going to _cut classes._ For _me._ ”

“I-It’s not like that.”

“Really? So you’re not cutting because you want to go on a walk with me?”

Ferdinand huffs indignantly. “So you agree, on taking that walk?”

“Hmph…” Linhardt slings his bag over his shoulder and stretches languidly. “Fine. It’s not like I have anything better to do. And I’d like to witness the noble, responsible Ferdinand cutting class for the first time in… let me guess… three years?”

“Two,” Ferdinand corrects, but he smiles anyway.

It becomes apparent they have no idea where to go the moment they step outside of campus. Linhardt does _not_ want to jog, thank you very much, and going to Ferdinand’s favorite tea shop would probably defeat the purpose of going out for a walk.

“How about…” Ferdinand glances at Linhardt trudging along beside him. He’s dressed like he’s nearly ready for bed, in just an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, and Ferdinand wonders if he had changed at all after waking up this morning. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Linhardt shrugs.

“That is not an answer.”

Linhardt shrugs again. “Can’t remember.”

“You…” Ferdinand stares at him. “What?”

“Might’ve eaten. Might’ve not.” Linhardt shrugs for the third time. Doesn’t his shoulder ache? “Probably not, though, because I’m hungry.”

“Oh! Well, perfect.” Ferdinand scans their surroundings, spotting a little café just within sight. His first thought is that Linhardt would love whatever sweets and pastries they have there, but then he backtracks—those would hardly be good for him on an empty stomach, and there aren’t any actual meals there. Maybe… “How about over there?”

Ferdinand likes this convenience store. It’s quaint, the cashiers are nice, there are rarely many people around, and most importantly, their packed meals are _amazing._ It’s a wonder how good they can make some salad and bread taste. But Linhardt wrinkles his nose at the ones Ferdinand shows him, peering at the food and poking at the plastic container like the sandwich is a fish in a tank. “Why…? Isn’t there a café just over there…?”

“You will doubtless only eat sweets there, and that is hardly any good for you,” Ferdinand scolds, slotting the meal back on the shelf and picking a different one. Maybe Linhardt likes fish more, thinking about it. He acts like a cat half the time, after all. “If you eat something substantial first, we can stop by the café afterwards.”

“You’re treating me like a child now.” But Linhardt takes the meal anyway, looking close to salivating.

Ferdinand bustles around, scouring the rest of the food and snacks on display. “We should get you more food anyway. _Healthy_ food, to keep in your dorm so you have something to eat when hungry. Did you finish all the ones I bought you last time?”

“Mhm. Could you get some bread?” Linhardt peers closer at the fish. “Maybe a sandwich. Or, no, they always put tomatoes in there. I hate tomatoes.”

Ferdinand frowns, but finds a decent-looking, tomato-less sandwich and hands it to Linhardt. “Tomatoes are good for you.”

“Are not. The only thing they’re good for is killing my taste buds. Did you know I once told Professor Byleth that I wanted to become a loaf of bread, and they responded with ‘in that case, I want to become a carton of milk?’”

“…What?”

Linhardt shrugs. “That’s just what they said. On that note, I’d like some milk too now.”

They walk out of the convenience store with Linhardt’s bag significantly heavier and Ferdinand’s wallet significantly lighter. Linhardt finishes half the milk (and a chocolate bar he somehow snuck under Ferdinand’s nose) before they even make it five minutes on the streets, then promises he’ll eat the lunch later when they get back. “But now that I’m here, I’d rather not go back to the dorms so quickly,” Linhardt sighs, licking his lips clean of chocolate. “If I have to see my textbooks one more time, I might just throw up.”

Ferdinand winces. “I understand. Hm… Then where shall we go next?” He still has to get back before nightfall to study for his exam tomorrow, but… “Ah, wait. While we are here, would you mind terribly if we went over there?”

Linhardt follows where he points, then raises an eyebrow. “Over… there? That’s a little far.”

“I’m in dire need of a new desk lamp,” Ferdinand sighs. “My roommate’s… friend—” He’s still not sure what Claude is to Lorenz, really—“came over, and then those two got in a squabble of some sort, and, well. My lamp ended up as collateral damage.” Ferdinand still remembers the gruesome scene: his precious lamp broken in half on the floor, Lorenz and Claude profusely apologizing to him, and then not five minutes later the two of them making out on Lorenz’ bed. Utterly traumatizing. Ferdinand hasn’t been the same since then.

“Oh.” Linhardt makes a face. “Maybe I should get a lamp too. I’ve been reading in the dark this whole time.”

Ferdinand whirls to face him. “You’ve been _what?”_

“Reading in the da—”

“Y-Yes, I heard you! But why on Earth would you do that? This is why you can’t see a thing half the time!” Ferdinand exclaims, barely restraining himself from waving his arms around. “You have to take care of your eyes, Linhardt, otherwise how will you—”

_How will you become a doctor like your father?_

Ferdinand shuts his mouth so hard his teeth clack together. Linhardt turns away, the faint amusement on his face replaced by a darker sort of shadow, one Ferdinand recognizes too often on himself. “Otherwise,” Ferdinand slowly says, “otherwise… I, well… I don’t want that for you.”

“Real convincing,” Linhardt mutters, picking at his nails. “It’s fine. I get that often. For just about anything I do, really.” He starts walking ahead, in the direction Ferdinand had pointed out, and Ferdinand hurries to follow. “You know… I’m too lazy, how will I ever get far in life. I can’t be scared of blood, how will I be a good doctor. I’m too _whatever,_ how will I ever make my father look _nice._ ”

He sighs heavily and scratches the back of his head, dragging a hand down his knotted hair. “Really wish I bought a new pack of cigs now.”

“N-No!” Ferdinand manages to exclaim. That, at least, is something he can respond to. “Those are just as unhealthy for you as reading in the dark is. You should take care of yourself, Linhardt. Not for your father, or… or anyone. Just for yourself.”

Linhardt gives him an odd look, then turns back to gaze ahead of him. “That’s even less convincing.”

Ferdinand frowns. “Then… for me?”

“What?”

“Take care of yourself for me?”

Linhardt huffs out a laugh. “Now that’s the _least_ convincing thing you’ve said, Ferdinand.”

“W-Well—” Ferdinand crosses his arms and does his best not to look completely embarrassed. Even outside the bedroom, Linhardt somehow manages to reduce him to a stuttering mess. “Well, I like taking care of you, Linhardt, but it’d be better if you took care of yourself, too.”

When there’s no immediate reply, Ferdinand turns to look beside him—and sees Linhardt blinking owlishly at him, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “Wh… You need to stop saying things like that,” Linhardt snaps, though there’s no real bite in his tone.

“Things like… what?”

“You know!” Linhardt groans and shakes his head. “Never mind. Let’s—Let’s just go. Get your… lamp or whatever.”

The furniture store is as humongous as ever—Linhardt stares wide-eyed at everything around them, which means Ferdinand has to stop and wait until Linhardt has satisfied his curiosity with a funny-looking dresser or a unique mirror. “You’ve never been?” Ferdinand eventually asks. He, Edelgard, and Hubert used to awkwardly walk beside each other every other week whenever their parents went shopping here.

Linhardt shakes his head. “A few times, when I was much younger. I always brought a book, though. It was usually my mother who dragged me around.” He pauses. “I haven’t been back in one of these in… I think… over a decade? So I don’t remember much.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand wracks his head for something more intelligent to say, but turns around when he notices a lack of footsteps behind him. “Linhardt? Where did you—”

He heaves a sigh at the sight before him: Linhardt, holding out a giant shark plush the length of his torso. “You are not buying that.”

“And why _not._ ” Linhardt shakes it around. The shark wiggles accordingly. “Ferdinand. _It’s so soft.”_

“No.”

“Ugh. _Please._ I’ll even pay you back, so it won’t be your money!”

Ferdinand puts on his best frown in response to Linhardt’s pleading look. “Can’t you get something else? Like…” He casts a look around the place. “Like one of those… rats.”

Linhardt’s pout intensifies.

“Or that owl. Look, it’s cute and soft. And much smaller.”

Linhardt does not move.

At the back of his head, Ferdinand prays to whichever god is listening that his father never finds out about this.

They leave the furniture store with Ferdinand’s new desk lamp (a lovely shade of yellow that would look perfect with his table) and Linhardt’s new shark friend (which Ferdinand forces Linhardt to carry himself, to build up arm strength if nothing else). Honestly, Ferdinand hadn’t expected Linhardt to be such a stuffed-animal person, but seeing him so enamored with the shark now has him thinking it isn’t so surprising after all.

“I will name him…” Linhardt stares into space for a moment. “I don’t know what to name him. Should I name him Professor?”

Ferdinand makes a face. “You looked at that thing and saw a ‘Professor?’”

“He is not _that thing,_ you savage. He’s Professor now.” Linhardt hugs the shark closer to his chest. Not that he can do much else with it—it’s far too big to stuff in a bag. “Anyway, I just thought of Professor Byleth, since they like fish so much. Which I understand. Milkfish belly is the stuff of dreams.”

They round the corner just as the streetlamps around them begin to flicker on, like the stars of the concrete city. Ferdinand briefly worries they’ll take forever to get back to campus, then decides it’s not worth fretting over at the moment—right now he can’t think of anything else but walking with Linhardt. “What’s that?”

Linhardt stares at him over the shark’s—ahem, _Professor’s_ —head. “You’ve never had any?”

“No…” Ferdinand frowns. His father had always only arranged for the finest foods to be served in their household, even though it had always been a strain on their funds. “It sounds familiar, though. Is it common?”

“It’s a _delicacy,_ is what it is. Ugh, talking about it is making me hungry.” Linhardt shifts his grip on his shark and takes Ferdinand’s wrist, pulling him down the street and away from the flashier, more high-end restaurants Ferdinand had expected him to go to. “Let’s go have a picnic or something. I still have the food you bought me.”

“A—what? A picnic?” Ferdinand stammers. “It’s already nighttime—shouldn’t we be heading back?”

Linhardt looks back at him, his grip loosening on Ferdinand’s wrist. “It’ll take forever to get back, and we’ll both be starving. Come on, do you really want to start studying again that bad?”

“Ah…” Ferdinand sighs. “No, I suppose not.”

“I thought so.” Linhardt smiles, a precious thing in the sunset light, and tugs on his hand again. “Alright, follow me. I know a nice place.”

It takes a bit of walking (and accidentally breaking through someone’s property, something Linhardt only decided to tell Ferdinand _after_ he ripped a new hole in the wire fence), but they arrive at a small hill just beside a deserted park. By this point it’s fully dark out, and though actual stars are nowhere near visible, the hill provides an unexpectedly nice view of the city lights from afar. Linhardt flops down beneath an old tree without a care for his clothes; Ferdinand tentatively follows after.

“Caspar and I used to run away here whenever we didn’t want to do our homework in high school,” Linhardt says, stretching his arms over his head. Professor is safely placed atop his lap. “He has Ashe now, though, and the campus is further away from here than our houses are. So I haven’t been here in a while.”

“I see…” Ferdinand stares out at the city as Linhardt begins rummaging through his bag and retrieving the packed meals from earlier, along with the bread and milk. “It’s a lovely view,” he murmurs. “Makes you think there really is more out there.”

Linhardt tilts his head a little, munching on the bread. “Well, of course there is. More out there than just this city, I mean.” He shrugs. “I don’t need a nice view to tell me that.”

“Ah—yes, well. Of course.” Ferdinand rubs the back of his neck, trying for a sheepish laugh and getting a decidedly bitter one instead. Linhardt pauses in his chewing, giving him a curious look. “But it… isn’t like that for me. Not really.”

Linhardt cracks open the plastic food container. “This is about your father, isn’t it?” At Ferdinand’s nod, he hums and pokes experimentally at the fish with his fork. It doesn’t look like milkfish, but it’ll probably do. “I’ve heard of him here and there. Must have seen him once, but I can’t remember when—”

“My mother,” Ferdinand interrupts, surprising himself. He knows his manners well enough not to cut anyone off, but he can’t help himself now, when his thoughts are running a mile a minute and it’s taking him enough effort to rein them in before they fly straight out of his head like a flock of wild birds. “She—She was sick. Your father treated her personally, which is how I came to know your name. But she died anyway, and my father…”

He trails off, unsure of how to explain what happened afterwards. Even now he’s not too sure himself, when the line between his memories and his young mind’s fabrications blurs like the glare of car headlights shining on rain-slicked windshields. But Linhardt doesn’t seem to need anything more than that, because he makes a little _oh_ sound and stares at his food. “No, I remember that,” he says, very softly. “My father was furious. At himself, and at me. Probably because my mother had died not so long ago before that, and he’d been unable to treat her too.”

They let the silence hang over them, thick enough to be corporeal, until Linhardt breaks it by stabbing the fish with his fork. “So both our mothers are dead,” he says, voice perfectly flat and entirely unapologetic, “and both our fathers are terrible. What a coincidence.”

Ferdinand scratches his cheek. “Terrible?”

“Mine is, at least. After Mother died, he grew harder and harder on me until the house became suffocating.” Linhardt chews his fish thoughtfully. “If I were a nicer man, I’d let it slide because I know he wants to… protect me, or whatever. But I’m not. I like my freedom over anything else. After all, when you think about it, this world doesn’t even have any rules… just people telling us what to do.”

Linhardt turns to look at him. In this angle, it looks like the moonlight shines down on him, casting long shadows across his angular face. “And you?” he asks. “I’ve told you my sad, tragic backstory. If it counts as sad and tragic, anyway. Your turn now, if you want.”

“I-I don’t…” Ferdinand sighs. “I haven’t really… spoken about this to anyone in a while.” The last person had been Dorothea, and he hardly even remembers that. Honestly, everything interesting always happened to him when he was drunk. “I guess he’s as awful as people come. I… didn’t always think that, though.”

It’s bittersweet, how he used to look up to his father so much when he was younger—always tagging along after his footsteps, mimicking his actions, pretending to be a congressman saving the people like Father. But Ferdinand met Edelgard and Hubert, who taught him how to sneak around and hide in the shadows, and, well—there were things there he almost wishes he had never known about, the secrets his father hid, words he whispered in the darkness the same way a snake slithered through the tall grass, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

“There was this one time,” Ferdinand haltingly manages, “when—a case was filed against him. Embezzling money, stealing taxes. This was when Mother was still sick, so I—I understand why he did it. We weren’t so rich as to be able to afford all the hospital bills, at that time.” He swallows. “But that doesn’t excuse his actions. So he… he went to court for it.”

His memories of those are a haze, and only recently has he begun to remember more bits and pieces of it rather than just a foggy mishmash of moments he can hardly understand. Ferdinand doesn’t know where the courtroom had been exactly, but his father’s secretary had been tasked with keeping him busy, so they had gone to the Senate as an “educational trip.”

_See here, Ferdinand? This is the podium, where the lawyers go… you know what lawyers are, don’t you? They always speak the truth, always protect the people… are you hungry, dear? Let’s go to the dining hall… do you like pineapple juice?_

“He was declared not guilty,” Ferdinand continues, his tongue feeling suddenly bloated, “because he paid his lawyer with the money he stole. So he got off scot-free.”

Linhardt doesn’t say anything, only looks at him over his milk carton. Ferdinand swallows again, fiddling restlessly with a loose thread on his shirt. “P-Perhaps that is why I value rules more than you?” he tries, not sure why the words come out as a question. “My father pretends to uphold them on the outside, but to him they have always just been—playthings, or something, to dance around and toy with because he has the money to get away with it.”

“Hm.” Linhardt looks down. “Sounds like every other politician in existence.”

Ferdinand can’t help but bark out a laugh that, again, does not sound very much like a laugh. “Doesn’t it? He—He detests the working class, too. I remember making a friend, back in high school. It was a private academy, but she was a commoner with a scholarship. She told me about how she was unfairly treated by so many of the upper-class, and what little money her mother had was taken away when her father—some already-married millionaire—kicked them out onto the streets.”

He pauses there, trying to ignore the pain in his chest by staring at a fixed point on the shark’s tail. But he remembers anyway—Dorothea cursing him out, telling him he’s just like any other stuck-up rich boy, _I can’t wait for you to grow up and be just like your father—_ and he has to swallow the pathetic sound he would have let out otherwise. “That’s all,” Ferdinand says, a little lamely. “I’d appreciate if you, er, didn’t—”

“Spread that around?” Linhardt finishes. He leans back against the tree trunk, propping his legs up on one of its thick roots. “Don’t worry. I don’t have anyone to tell, after all. But your father really is much worse than I thought he was.”

Ferdinand snorts. “Unfortunately. He’s pushing me to be a congressman like him still, and I suppose I have no choice.”

“But do you want it?”

A pause. “What?”

“Do you want it?” Linhardt turns his head just enough to meet his eyes, and Ferdinand has to struggle to keep the eye contact steady. “You don’t have to follow him if you don’t, you know. You have perfect control over your own life.”

 _Perfect control…_ Ferdinand almost laughs. “I’m not so sure about that, Linhardt.”

“Really? Because I already told you—rules don’t have to exist if you don’t want them to. Who cares what anyone else says? Make your own decisions. Follow your own rules, and screw everyone else’s.” Linhardt sighs, staring up at the night sky. “Your father can _tell_ you to stop. But what else can he do? _Actually_ stop you? I’m not so sure about _that._ ”

The night is quiet, when they’re far away from the city—the roar of traffic has been muted to a dull sound one has to really focus on to hear, and around them is mostly the rustling of grass and leaves in the wind. Ferdinand exhales. “What about you? What do you really want to be, Linhardt?”

He shrugs. “Myself.”

“A poetic answer. But not a very substantial one.”

“Ugh. Fine. I suppose I haven’t been completely honest with you.” Linhardt yawns, wrapping his arms around his shark. “I… _do_ want to be a doctor. But not like my father, who only accepts rich patients he knows he can cure. Watching my mother die before my eyes was not exactly my favorite memory as a child. So I… you better not laugh.”

“I would never,” Ferdinand promises.

Linhardt sighs. “I want to be a doctor who can help… everyone. No matter who they are. I thought this dream would fade with time, but for some reason it’s stuck with me since that day. It’s cliché and stupid, but—”

“It is not!” Ferdinand exclaims, shuffling closer to clasp Linhardt’s hand in his. Linhardt jolts, but doesn’t pull away, only stares at him in surprise. “Well, I admit I didn’t expect that, but it is a respectable dream nonetheless! I… I wish I had a dream as noble as yours, Linhardt.” Slowly he lets go, unsure as to why he had grabbed Linhardt’s hand in the first place. “And I wish you all the best for it.”

Linhardt blinks, then looks away with a little pout. “Okay. No need to react that much. It’s just, you know, a sort of… thought. A thought I’ve had for a while.”

“If ‘a while’ meant ‘a decade,’ then?”

“Cheeky, aren’t you?”

Ferdinand smiles, and this time it feels like an actual, happy smile. “It’s getting late. Shall we head back? If we go now, I might still have time to study for tomorrow…”

“Hmm.” Linhardt places Professor across Ferdinand’s lap, then gathers the trash up in his arms and walks over to a nearby garbage bin to throw them in. “Studying again? Don’t you want to come over?”

Ferdinand’s hand stutters over the shark. “What?”

“What, what?” Linhardt turns back around to look at him, expression as unreadable as ever. “You did say you wanted me to have a less self-destructive coping mechanism. Here it is.” When Ferdinand still can’t find the proper words to respond with, Linhardt sighs and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Unless you don’t want to, of c—”

“No!” Ferdinand nearly shouts. A pair of birds flee the tree they had sat beneath, and Ferdinand hastens to stand up and head over to a startled Linhardt. “I mean, I-I do want to. Of course I do.”

“Enough to abandon your precious studying?”

“You are more important,” Ferdinand says, not bothering to think his words through.

He’s rewarded by Linhardt’s laugh, soft and sweet and painfully genuine. “I told you. Stop saying things like that, or else I might start taking you seriously.”

Caspar is out when they get back, so the first thing Ferdinand does as soon as they step foot in Linhardt’s dorm is throw him down on his bed—Linhardt lets out a little yelp that morphs into a pleased sigh when Ferdinand nips at his throat, intent on leaving more of those dark bruises he can’t help but stare at in the mornings. “Ferdinand,” Linhardt gasps, “you’re—a little fast—”

Ferdinand pauses just above his neck, taking the time to appreciate the flush beginning to climb up Linhardt’s pale skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

“N-No. Just wait a moment.” Linhardt reaches over to grab his wallet from his bag, which he’d tossed carelessly onto the floor, and retrieves— _oh._ “Don’t look so scandalized,” he says, when Ferdinand stares at the packet like a gaping fish out of water. “You’ve used this before, haven’t you?”

“For an entirely different reason!” Ferdinand protests.

“Oh, hush. I’ll do it myself this once, but—” Linhardt reddens further as he places the packet beside him and starts tugging his leggings down. “Watch. Pay attention. You’ll be doing it yourself next time.”

 _Next time—_ the words send a thrill down Ferdinand’s spine, and he hurriedly helps Linhardt out of his clothes, throwing them into the laundry basket in the center of the room. When he looks back, Linhardt’s already ripped the packet open and pouring its contents in his palm. “You can use as much as you want,” Linhardt says, voice just a smidge shaky. “Don’t worry about wasting or whatever. Too much is better than too little.”

Ferdinand nods, anticipation running through his veins and making him want to bounce around the room from restlessness. He nearly stops breathing when Linhardt reaches beneath himself, fingers cold and slick. “You don’t have to be too gentle with me,” Linhardt tells him, brow furrowing as his hand finds its destination. “I like it a little… mm… rougher.”

“T-That’s…”

Linhardt grins into his clean palm. “Or are you too scared you’ll break me, Ferdinand? I think I might even like that.”

“Don’t say such things,” Ferdinand barely manages to huff—not that it does much, because now his heart feels like it’s beating hard enough to burst straight out of his chest. Just the thought of Linhardt beneath him, legs folded near in half, begging for more—he shuts that down as soon as possible, but it does nothing to help the state of his own now-tight trousers, and he hurries to get out of them.

Linhardt exhales heavily as he enters himself. “One at a time,” Linhardt mutters, his wrist starting to move. “And… slowly at first. I’ll tell you when it’s… okay to add more…”

His eyes flutter closed, seemingly unconsciously, and his lips part to form low gasps as he fingers himself open. Ferdinand watches, utterly entranced—it’s an unfairly bewitching sight, one he’s never seen before and one he desperately wants to see all the time now. “You look like you’re enjoying this,” Linhardt mumbles, cracking an eye open to blink hazily at him; Ferdinand has to shake his head to focus on what Linhardt’s saying. “Do you like watching me like this? Hm?”

A familiar sense of competition flares up in him, and Ferdinand bends down to nibble at Linhardt’s neck, zeroing in on the sensitive spot just above his collarbone. “And you, Linhardt?” he murmurs against his skin, the needy sigh that leaves Linhardt only stoking the flame in Ferdinand. “Do you like being watched like this?”

“Tha— _ah—_ That’s unfair,” Linhardt gasps, his legs rising involuntarily when Ferdinand reaches down to wrap a hand around him. “Don’t—mm—Ferdinand—”

“Don’t what? Do this?”

He pumps his hand once, and Linhardt jerks forward with a low groan. Ferdinand can’t help but stare—he doesn’t think he can ever tire of this sight. He strokes Linhardt a few more times, then lets go when Linhardt makes a genuine, if terribly weak, attempt to push him off. “Ready,” he pants, “I’m ready, please, ah, please hurry. H-Here—”

Linhardt leans up, his hand still coated in lube, and slicks Ferdinand up. The cold is shocking for only a moment, almost instantly replaced by hot pleasure, and Ferdinand has to suppress his own groan at the sensation. “Okay, I—do I just, sort of, put it in—?”

“Yes, please, any time now—”

“Alright, alright—” Without thinking, Ferdinand grips Linhardt’s thighs and lifts them up, spreading them open in the process, and blinks down when Linhardt whimpers and goes completely limp beneath him. “What—did I do something wrong?”

“You are doing everything _right,_ ” Linhardt hisses at him, his hands moving to cover his face. “Hurry up already, _please?”_

“Okay, alright, sorry—”

They both make frankly embarrassing sounds when Ferdinand finally enters him—Linhardt presses his face against the pillow, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths, while Ferdinand has to struggle to form coherent thoughts at all. The heat is overwhelming—he’s never felt anything even close to something like this before, and his instinct is to push in deeper, feel more of Linhardt around him, but—“You’re fine?” Ferdinand remembers to ask, reaching down to touch Linhardt’s wrist. “You’re okay?”

Linhardt makes a noise that sounds frustrated and needy at once. “Yes, I’m fine, I’m okay, thank you for asking, please keep going—”

He yelps when Ferdinand’s touch turns to a grip around his arms as he pulls them away from his face, pinning them against the headboard. It’s an awkward position and Ferdinand has to struggle to keep his balance, but seeing Linhardt’s reaction is worth it. “Then let me look at you,” Ferdinand whispers. “I want to see your face.”

Linhardt swallows dryly. “I… I—okay. Okay, whatever, just—”

He cuts himself off with a high moan when Ferdinand moves forward, unintentionally quickly—hovering above Linhardt while keeping his hands pinned above him doesn’t offer the best control over the rest of his body. But Linhardt doesn’t seem to mind, straining against Ferdinand’s grip and jerking his own hips up as if to chase the pleasure. “More,” he gasps, “come on, Ferdinand, don’t stop—”

“Linhardt,” Ferdinand breathes, trying to memorize everything about right now—Linhardt’s dark hair fanning around his head like liquid night, every little one of his soft pants and needy whimpers, the column of his throat in the moonlight, the curve of his soft lips Ferdinand has grown so used to seeing in a pout. “Linhardt, you feel…”

He doesn’t know what to say, and Linhardt huffs out a laugh. “Go on, Ferdinand,” he says, voice low and just approaching ragged. “Call on your… your inner dirty talker or whatever. Hot? Tight? Anything will do—”

“Amazing,” Ferdinand finally finishes, leaning down before he can stop himself. For a brief moment he sees Linhardt’s eyes widen—and then all Ferdinand sees is pale skin again, because his knees slip beneath him and he crashes face-first onto Linhardt’s sternum. “G-Gah!”

“Oh, my God,” Linhardt says, a laugh slipping into his voice, “you are unbelievable. Get off me.”

“I-I am so sorry! I don’t know—” _what came over me,_ Ferdinand means to say, but then he realizes that would be a complete lie—because he _does_ know what came over him, and he _does_ know that if he hadn’t lost his balance at the perfect time, he would probably have done something he would have regretted for the rest of his life. He stares at Linhardt instead, feeling something flutter in his chest at the lazy, amused smile dancing on his lips.

The lips Ferdinand wants, badly, to kiss.

“Don’t worry about it.” Linhardt leans up to nip his ear, and Ferdinand doesn’t quite bite back the half-surprised, half-pleased sound he makes. “Now start moving again. This position isn’t quite the—”

His words melt into a high-pitched moan that catches in his throat when Ferdinand tries to adjust their position, and Linhardt’s hands fly up to pull Ferdinand’s hair in a death grip. “ _Fuck_ —there, right there—”

“What? Where?” Ferdinand frets.

“Just—move like that again—”

Ferdinand does his best to replicate the movement, and Linhardt throws his head back with a cry loud enough to make Ferdinand’s heart shake. Ferdinand does it again, and again, aiming for the same spot and trying to ingrain the motion into memory—Linhardt just about writhes beneath him, sweet sounds falling from his mouth, desperate and pleading and as addicting as how Ferdinand imagines a drug would be. “Good,” he whispers, “just like that, Ferdinand, good job—”

“A-Ah…” The words sound dirty in that breathy, breathless voice, and Ferdinand has a bad feeling about how it makes his stomach coil in pleasure. “Y… Yes…”

Linhardt peers up at him, reaching up to brush away the hair sticking to his sweat-slick forehead. “You like that? Praise?”

“I-I don’t—”

“You feel so good.” Linhardt wraps his arms around Ferdinand’s neck to tug him lower down, peppering his neck with feather-light kisses, soft as the touches of angels. “So big in me… you’re doing so well, Ferdinand…”

Ferdinand whimpers. “Linhardt—”

“Give me more, please, harder—”

With a surge of determination, Ferdinand thrusts forward as hard as he can, and Linhardt gasps brokenly—one of his hands goes down to touch himself, pumping in time with Ferdinand’s movements, and the sight has Ferdinand downright _enraptured_ with how gorgeous he looks. “I—ah, fuck—Ferdinand, I’m—”

Ferdinand jerks forward again, aiming for the same spot, and Linhardt’s back arches off the bed as he comes, slapping a hand over his mouth and muffling his sob. Linhardt tightens, practically sucking Ferdinand deeper in, and Ferdinand has to bend down to stifle his own moan in Linhardt’s shoulder when he spills inside him, pleasure cresting and cascading over him.

For a moment there is only the two of them, tangled up together and sharing the same hot air. Then Linhardt sighs and lets his arm fall back on the bed, squirming halfheartedly beneath Ferdinand. “Clean me up, will you.”

Ferdinand nods, shakily—his legs feel like jelly, but then again they always do, and going to the drawer to get a clean rag is muscle memory by now.

When he’s done and tossed the rag into the laundry basket too, Linhardt’s still curled up in bed, though now he’s brought Professor (who had previously been sitting on Caspar’s bed) to snuggle with. “Hurry up and get over here,” Linhardt says, a yawn catching at the end of his words. “Or else I’ll… mm… fall asleep without you.”

“A tragedy, I’m sure.” Ferdinand obediently climbs in, pulling the blankets over the both of them, though he already knows Linhardt is going to steal them all in the night and leave Ferdinand bereft of warmth. “Was that… alright?”

Linhardt looks at him. “What was?”

“You know.” Ferdinand does his best to will the blush away. He probably fails. “ _That._ What just happened.”

“Oh. You’re asking… if you did okay? Um, Ferdinand. Did you hear a word I said earlier?”

The blush is most definitely at full force now, and Ferdinand can only dream of hiding it. “B-But those could have been… in the heat of the moment! Like how people say lots of things during… _these,_ but they don’t actually mean it, and they only do so because it feels nice, and, and—”

“Ferdinand.” Linhardt touches his cheek, very gently. Ferdinand quiets right away. “You did fine. I always mean what I say. Or are you telling me _you_ were caught up in the heat of the moment, and I don’t feel, ahem, ‘amazing?’”

Ferdinand groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Of course not! I meant every word!”

“There’s your answer.” Linhardt yawns again, nudging Ferdinand until he turns to face Linhardt again just so he can tuck his face in the crook of Ferdinand’s shoulder. His favorite position, Ferdinand remembers, fondness tickling his chest. “Well, goodnight. I’m properly exhausted now, so don’t even think of waking me up.”

“Ah. Yes. Okay.” Ferdinand smiles down at him, reaching down to pull the blankets further up until Linhardt’s chin—he knows how cold the other man can get. “Linhardt…”

There’s a _hm,_ but Ferdinand’s not sure if Linhardt’s reacting to him or just beginning to doze off already. Ferdinand swallows, and after sending a prayer up to the gods, whispers, “You… are very beautiful.”

No response. In another few seconds, all Ferdinand hears is Linhardt’s familiar, even breathing.

What had Linhardt said, earlier? _Stop saying things like that, or else I might start taking you seriously._ But Ferdinand had been completely serious when he had said that, and he’s being completely serious now—and when he had leaned down, when he had wanted to kiss Linhardt so terribly it had almost hurt—

He doesn’t think he had ever been more serious about anything in his life.

Ferdinand, as usual, wakes to the first rays of the sunrise and Linhardt’s quiet snuffles.

He’d known from the start he wouldn’t be able to stay—he has a morning class, after all, and he still has to find time to study for his exam in between classes. Ferdinand’s long grown used to waking up earlier than usual to make it in time, and he knows Linhardt must be used to waking up alone, too.

That doesn’t make him feel any better whenever he has to leave, though.

After the usual bit of maneuvering and propping Linhardt’s head up on his pillow, Ferdinand climbs out of the bed and stumbles around in the dark, trying to locate his clothes from the piles of trash on the floor. On the other side, he can hear light snoring, so Caspar had probably come back at some point in the night. More reason to leave as quietly as possible, then.

He’s in the process of buttoning up his shirt when he hears a shuffle from the bed, and then: “Leaving so early?”

“Linhardt?” Ferdinand turns around. Linhardt’s never woken up before, but now he’s decidedly staring up at Ferdinand from beneath the covers, arms folded atop Professor’s head. “I thought you were asleep.”

“All your bustling about woke me up.” At Ferdinand’s guilty expression, Linhardt laughs under his breath and says, “Kidding. I always wake up when you leave, you know.”

“R… Really?” All those times, and not once had Linhardt spoken—until now. “Well, I… I’m sorry, you know my schedule. I’ve got a morning class almost everyday. And there’s still my exam later today, I don’t know a thing about the topic and you know how Professor Hanneman is stingy with grades—”

He breaks off when he realizes Linhardt’s eyes have fallen closed. With a sigh, Ferdinand returns to his clothes, pulling his trousers up just enough so he can make it back to his own dorm and change into something else—

“Ferdinand,” Linhardt murmurs, voice laden down by sleep but somehow still as tempting as a siren’s, “text me when you’re done… okay?”

“Oh…” For a second Ferdinand can only stare at Linhardt buried under several layers of blankets and his shark friend in his arms—and then a smile pulls at his lips, as insistent as the beat of his heart. “Of course!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: [LINHARDT WITH THE IKEA SHARK!!!!!!](https://twitter.com/kin_niku829/status/1236605687200800768) going batshit over this thanks so much!!!! 😭
> 
> the furniture store is ikea, of course! thank you to astrid (aka the same friend who told me about the pineapple juice) for suggesting they go there. i also made linhardt buy the ikea shark because i have wanted one for 3 years but it's always too big to bring home...  
> milkfish (or bangus) belly is pretty common in the ph and also my favorite part of the fish. actually the only part of the fish i eat. this has been milkfish propaganda  
> also sorry the sexy scenes in this fic really. aren't even all that sexy?? FJGHLFKJ i can't imagine ferdie ever using the typical dirty words (even in his thoughts) and if i dropped them around i'd feel like i'm betraying him... betraying my son...  
> the last scene is directly based off the comic i linked in the beginning notes! pls check it out if u haven't already c:
> 
> next chapter: the boss battle


	5. “please don’t lie to me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my God,” Linhardt exclaims, “this isn’t even a real musical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i posted the first chapter i did Not mean for this last chapter to be posted on valentine's day but damn... here it is... happy valentine's day folks. thank you for the kudos & comments <3  
> i also apologize in advance because you are all going to hate me for what musical i made dorothea and co. perform

Half an hour since his last text. Still no reply.

Ferdinand sighs. Linhardt has muted notifications from every single social media app on his phone, because apparently it interferes with his rhythm games or whatever, and though Ferdinand respects that, he would also _highly_ appreciate it if Linhardt took the time to respond to his questions, such as when his current class ends.

After Ferdinand had taken the time to add a smiley face on his contact name, too! A privilege he had only reserved for Dorothea until then. (Hubert gets an angry face. Since a smiley is unacceptable but the angry face seems too intense, Edelgard gets the blank-faced emoji.)

Out of lack of things to do, Ferdinand peers over Bernadetta’s shoulder, who’s sitting beside him on the bench and idly swinging her legs. “What are you working on?”

It had taken forever for Bernadetta to stop jolting away from him every time he spoke, but now she doesn’t even react when he comes this close. Ferdinand considers this a win. “Thinking of a modern AU,” she murmurs, tapping her pencil against her chin. She usually doesn’t write on her notebook, but she’s saving her laptop battery for her next class. “But I’m not sure about its storyline just yet, only that I want it modern… I’m tired of writing fight scenes.”

Ferdinand nods, even if he only understands maybe half of what she’s just said. He still doesn’t know what ‘AU’ stands for, and by this point he’s too scared to ask. “Have you finished that… ah…” _What was it? It had something to do with a dragon, right?_ “That fantasy-medieval one already?”

Bernadetta perks up, and Ferdinand gives himself a pat on the back for remembering. He knows how few people take the time to talk to her about her interests, and he owes it to her for always indulging him when he goes off on his own tangents. “Almost! Just the last few chapters left. They’re finally going to confess their love to each other… I just have to get through those fight scenes…”

They’re interrupted when someone shouts from afar—Bernadetta squeaks in surprise, scrambling to grab her notebook before it falls off her lap, and Ferdinand glances up. There’s always someone shouting, of course—it’s college—but the voice is strangely…

“Ferdie!” Dorothea waves her arm in the air, attracting probably half a dozen pairs of eyes. “There you are! Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Dorothea?” Ferdinand stands up just as Dorothea jogs the rest of the way over to the bench he and Bernadetta had been sitting on. He fumbles for his phone, then winces when he realizes he had been so absorbed with Linhardt’s lack of messages that he hadn’t seen Dorothea’s abundance of them. “So sorry! I hadn’t noticed—but what are you doing here?”

Dorothea sighs, flicking long curly hair over her shoulder. “Manuela got her schedules mixed up again and came here instead of over at the _other_ university she should be in… and, of course, I just wanted to see you!” she winks, but Ferdinand is long used to her mock-flirting. Predictably enough, she turns to face Bernadetta next, hands clasped innocently behind her back. “And who’s this?”

Bernadetta, who had been holding very still akin to a small animal trying to escape a predator’s attention, blinks up at Dorothea. “What? Oh, um…”

“This is Bernadetta!” Ferdinand says, presenting her like a painting at an exhibit. “She’s a clubmate. Bernadetta, this is Dorothea. She—”

“Bernadetta, hm?” Dorothea says, already leaning closer with the beginnings of a sly smile on her lips. Ferdinand tries not to sigh—he had expected this, but had still hoped Dorothea would prove him wrong for once. “That’s a cute name for a cute girl… do you mind if I call you Bernie?”

Bernadetta shoots up from the bench, clutching her notebook to her chest. “I-I have to go!” she cries. “Sorry, Ferdinand! I, I, um—n-nice meeting you!”

And she bolts.

“Exactly what happened the first time I met her,” Ferdinand says, shaking his head. “Don’t look so downcast, Dorothea. She, ahem… takes a while to warm up to others. But she is a very lovely girl! Edelgard just adores her.”

“Oh, _Edie?_ She’s claimed her already?” Dorothea grumbles, crossing her arms. “And here I thought I had a chance… hmm…”

“I would not say _claimed…_ ”

Dorothea makes a flippant gesture. “Ah, well, never mind that. Guess what I’m here for!” From her fluffy cardigan pocket she whips out three small tickets, decorated with red and gold colors. “It’s in a little over a week. You better bring you-know-who with you!”

Ferdinand colors. “You mean… no! I cannot _possibly,_ what will he think?” He fishes out his wallet and hands over a few bills, then takes the tickets in hand—the title of the musical is emblazoned in gaudy lettering. He wonders who designed it. Maybe the tech crew member Dorothea hates so much?

“Um, that you’re asking him out on a date? A very top-quality date, mind you.”

“B-But that is not… I mean, our relationship is…” Ferdinand groans, burying his face in his hands. “I mean, we have never even gone on a _date_ before!”

Dorothea rolls her eyes so hard, Ferdinand’s head stings with pain for her. “Okay, so that time when you cut class to go running around the city with him was, what? An errand to get your new desk lamp?”

Ferdinand scratches the back of his neck. “Well. That’s…” He had forgotten his desk lamp at Linhardt’s room, too, so he still has to find time to get it back. “That doesn’t count. I… I think.”

“This is ridiculous. Don’t you _like_ him?” Dorothea asks, spreading her arms out.

“That’s—”

Movement in the corner of his vision catches Ferdinand’s eye, and he turns to face whatever it is, glad for the momentary distraction—only to immediately regret it when the movement turns out to be _Linhardt_ himself, a pile of thick books in his arms and his usual sleepy expression on his face. “Ferdinand?” Linhardt says, glancing briefly up from his things.

And then his eyes slide over to Dorothea, and his vaguely pleased expression shuts down into, of all things, distaste.

“L-Linhardt!” Ferdinand exclaims, shooting Dorothea a warning look that very clearly tells her not to do _anything—_ Dorothea just gives him a cheeky smile back. “I, ah, I was waiting for you. Here—you left this at my room the other day. It looked important, so…” He trails off awkwardly, handing the textbook back. He had flipped through it out of curiosity while waiting for Linhardt here, and the various scribbles of terrible drawings and snarky commentary had been so endearing Ferdinand had needed to stop before his heart melted into a puddle.

“Oh. Thank you.” Linhardt takes the book back, adding it to his pile. When he faces Ferdinand again, the smile he gives him is a rare one, gentle and tender, one Ferdinand only gets to see in the dark of night or the dim early mornings. “I’m actually finished with the exam for this, but I suppose I should be grateful. It gave me an excuse to see you again.”

“Wh… What…”

“Nothing, never mind.” Linhardt shifts his grip on his books to one-handed, then raises his arm to—Ferdinand suppresses a Bernadetta-like squeak—tuck a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. “Your hair is getting long,” Linhardt notes absently. His hand lingers on Ferdinand’s face for perhaps a second too long than necessary.

“O-Oh, is it?” Ferdinand reaches up without thinking, and almost collapses when their hands brush, his on the way up and Linhardt’s on the way down. Ferdinand sweeps his hair behind his shoulders, just to have something to do with his hands, but leaves the strand Linhardt had touched alone. “I hadn’t, ahem, noticed. I should cut it soon, then.”

Linhardt shakes his head. “You look nice.”

“I… do?”

“Well, to me, at least.” Linhardt smiles, the smile he gets when he’s on the cusp of a laugh, and Ferdinand’s heart flutters up to his throat like an overexcited butterfly.

This is beyond ridiculous, Ferdinand thinks, mentally echoing Dorothea’s previous words. He can’t _possibly_ like Linhardt more than just a friend (with benefits)—because isn’t that all they are? Or all they’re supposed to be? It was a rule they had established early on, and though Ferdinand knows Linhardt isn’t much for rules, this is one he’s followed since the first day. They’re just friends. With benefits, but definitely still just friends.

So why does Ferdinand _still_ want to kiss him?

His thoughts are interrupted when Dorothea clears her throat, impatience in the sound, and Ferdinand hurries to pull her closer to them. “Um, Linhardt, this is Dorothea! A friend from high school.”

“Not just any friend, though,” Dorothea giggles, clinging onto his arm. “Right, Ferdie?”

Ferdinand, utterly baffled, can only stare blankly at her. Dorothea pinches the back of his arm, and Ferdinand hastens to say, “Ah, uh, yes! I mean… yes…?”

Linhardt’s smile drops, and his expression visibly darkens. “Nice to meet you,” he says, voice flat as a board.

Ferdinand looks between the both of them, the tension so electrical it feels like static is building in the air. “Right! Well… er…”

“I’ll get going,” Linhardt cuts in, giving Dorothea a curt nod and only glancing briefly up at Ferdinand. “Thanks for the book. See you, Ferdinand.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Dorothea detaches herself from Ferdinand with a disgusted noise and Ferdinand whirls on her, barely resisting from shaking her back and forth. “What on Earth was that!” he wails. “Why must he be so difficult to read? First he—he did _that_ to my hair—”

“It was very sweet,” Dorothea muses.

“—and then he barely even _looked at me_ after that?” Ferdinand sinks his face in his hands again, seconds away from tearing at his hair. “I can’t believe this. Why did you even do that?”

Dorothea twirls a bit of hair around her finger. “Do what?”

“You know! _That!_ ” Ferdinand shivers. “If you ever cling to me like that again, I might just start fearing for my life.”

“Hey! Most men would kill for me to do that. Anyway, you worry too much.” Dorothea sits down on the bench, prompting Ferdinand to do the same. “Come on. You like him, and he obviously likes you. He probably did the whole hair-thing because he was jealous and wanted to establish dominance over me or something.”

“Jealous.”

“Yes. Jealous. You know, like when an animal tries to mark its territory when it sees an intruder? Only he’s not peeing on trees and whatnot.”

Ferdinand shakes his head, choosing to ignore the mention of urine—if he has to be reminded of The Pineapple Juice Incident, he would rather it not happen _now._ “This is too much. I—I do not even _like_ Linhardt,” he protests. “He—He is a good friend, but he’s my antithesis! Completely disregarding of rules!” _Although that is one of his charms…_ “Always making me buy him food! He never did pay me back for his stuffed shark!” _Although I do not even truly mind, and he bought me a little horse paperweight because he remembered I liked horseback riding…_ “And… And, um… always… making me stay the night,” he finishes lamely.

Dorothea clears her throat. “If you’re done?” At Ferdinand’s nod, she leans forward and pokes his forehead with her index finger. “I bet you just refuted all those points in your head and you actually find them cute of him, don’t you?”

Ferdinand has no choice but to nod once again, because he’s never been one for lying. “Even so,” he mumbles, “my… my father would never allow it.”

“Oh, the very noble Mr. Aegir,” Dorothea grouses, pulling back as if the very mention of him physically injures her. And Ferdinand is fairly sure it does—their history is not the best. “What about him _now?_ You know, Ferdie, you’re a grown man, not an extension of your father. You don’t have to worry about what he’ll say to every little thing you do.”

Ferdinand sighs. “Linhardt said something similar.”

“Of course he did. Pretty much _everyone_ has.” Dorothea crosses her arms, leaning back on the bench. “But speaking of your dad, are you still set on following him and becoming a congressman? You have the connections, after all.”

Ferdinand’s reflex is to say _yes, of course,_ because he’s been saying that for as long as he can remember. Every family friend, every aunt and uncle, every well-meaning government worker—he had delivered the same answer, the same speech he’s been using since he was young. Even after he had found out about what his father had done, he had still been determined to become like him—minus the embezzlement part. But now he holds his tongue back, swallows the words down before he can speak them, because…

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. Being a congressman still sounds wonderful and all, because what better way to take down a system than from the inside? But as he is now, he can’t—he doesn’t have nearly as much power as he needs to help the people. His father’s connections are nothing but a string of lies connecting one thief to the other.

_Rules don’t have to exist if you don’t want them to._

But Ferdinand _does_ want them to—he just doesn’t know which rules to follow, and which ones are there for the breaking.

Dorothea sighs, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt your very deep internal monologue there, but I still don’t memorize the layout of this place. Help me find Manuela?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Ferdinand stands up, helping Dorothea up with him. “Um… Thank you, Thea. It’s been a while.”

“Since you’ve been subject to my lovely advice? I know, I know. Let’s just get a move on, will we? Maybe if there’s still some time left, you can show me to your nice cute friend again and I’ll see if I can snatch her under Edie’s nose…”

Ferdinand leads Dorothea to the infirmary, toying with the tickets he has on hand—one is for himself, and one is for… he might as well stop fooling himself and invite Linhardt. It’d just be silly of him to _not_ invite Linhardt under some pretense of only seeing him as a friend, and anyway, he _wants_ to spend that night with someone he actually likes and doesn’t want to punch the front teeth off (see: Hubert).

But the third ticket…

It’s probably a bad idea to invite his father, especially when he had told Ferdinand flat to his face that to keep associating with Dorothea, someone without parents nor money to her name, is unbecoming for his son. Ferdinand still remembers how that had gone—it was the day of his first argument with Dorothea, and then it had turned into the day of his first argument with his father as well. Because who _cared_ who he made friends with? They were in _high school,_ not the government—

He closes his eyes for a moment and does his best to shake the thoughts away, but they remain like insistent roaches skittering around in the dark—him trying to befriend Dorothea, her constant rebuffs until she had snapped at him at last, and then—

_You will be worth nothing if you refuse to follow what I say!_

“Ferdie?” Dorothea calls—Ferdinand blinks and turns to face her. She’s walking along beside him, looking around this way and that at the campus. “You looked… lost in thought. Something on your mind?”

“Oh, no. No, I’m alright.”

Ferdinand looks down at the tickets again. Nothing is stopping him from just handing it back to Dorothea, and let her keep the money with it—he knows he won’t miss it, but that extra cash is all the change to her, and somehow that’s what makes him _realize._

“No, I’m fine,” Ferdinand repeats. “Thank you.”

“Oh my God,” Linhardt exclaims, “this isn’t even a _real_ musical.”

Ferdinand leads them to their front-row seats, only half-listening to Linhardt’s complaints all the while. “Well, _I_ quite like the songs. I think they’re nice, and the messages they deliver—”

“Let me guess,” Linhardt interrupts, plopping down on his seat, “you like _Rewrite the Stars._ ”

“I… Um… Yes. B-But that’s only if I _had_ to pick a song, because of course I like them all equally—”

Linhardt just shakes his head, but he looks amused all the same. “I can’t believe you’re going to inflict an hour and a half’s worth of torture to me through this. Is this your idea of BDSM? Maybe you’re not as vanilla as I thought…”

“Please stop talking right there.”

Dorothea had dropped a number of hints about who she would be playing in the show, but honestly even without the hints, it’s fairly obvious who her character is—a show-stealer like her doesn’t fit in any other role, after all. Ferdinand settles into his seat beside Linhardt, scouring the rest of the audience around them. He can see Edelgard and Hubert on the other side of the auditorium, Petra speaking with someone else in the middle row, Lorenz (who had begrudgingly bought a ticket from Claude) squeezed in between Ignatz and Raphael…

Ferdinand worries on his lower lip. He had gotten his father’s secretary to deliver the ticket, but he can’t see the man himself anywhere.

“Looking for someone?” Linhardt asks, craning his neck to look up at him. Ferdinand had pestered him to dress up even just a little bit for tonight, but he hadn’t expected Linhardt to look like _this,_ all high-necked halter blouses and loose trousers and _laced heeled boots,_ of all things. What’s worse is that when Ferdinand had picked him up from his dorm, Linhardt had said, “Sorry I’m late (even if he isn’t really that late, for his standards), I couldn’t get the garters on my stockings quite right,” so Ferdinand hasn’t been able to focus on anything for the past several minutes. He feels like a trash bag next to him, considering he’d only gone with a typical blouse and jeans, though he had tied his hair in a low ponytail—but even that pales in comparison to Linhardt’s artfully-messy half-bun style.

Eventually he remembers he’s supposed to answer rather than ogle. “Just… no. It’s no one.”

“Really?” Linhardt looks out at the rest of the crowd, furrowing his brow when he spots Edelgard and Hubert. “Oh, I didn’t know they were here too. Were the four of you all friends in high school?”

“Yes, we attended the same school and are all around the same age, so…” Ferdinand shrugs. It was a private academy nestled comfortably in the richest neighborhood in the city, so it was really only inevitable that Edelgard and Ferdinand would end up studying there, along with Hubert, who went where Edelgard did. Dorothea had gotten there on a scholarship, though, sponsored by Professor Manuela, renowned professor and performer at the local opera.

Linhardt hums thoughtfully, leaning back on his seat. They’d arrived a half hour early (a miracle, considering Linhardt), so there’s still time before the show starts. “Wild guess,” he says, voice bland, “but this Dorothea. Is she the one you drunk-kissed before?”

“W-What? I, well, er—”

“That’s a yes?”

Ferdinand sighs. “Yes. But it was an accident! Neither of us were in our right minds. And we talked it over afterwards.” _Three months afterwards, that is._

“Hmm.” Linhardt doesn’t offer anything else, picking idly at his nails. His nails that have been painted a glossy black, Ferdinand notes.

He’s wearing earrings, too, a sun dangling on his right ear and a moon on the left—and with his sleeveless blouse, his shoulder tattoo of an intricate, curling crest of sorts is on full view for Ferdinand to stare dumbly at. Honestly, maybe Ferdinand _shouldn’t_ have told him to dress up, because he seems to have taken it far more seriously than Ferdinand expected him to.

But enough admiration. “Is something wrong?” Ferdinand cautiously asks. “Did you, um… not want to go tonight?”

Linhardt looks up at him from his nails, previous sulk replaced by confusion. “What?”

“I-I mean, there is still time before the show starts,” Ferdinand stammers, redirecting his gaze to somewhere that isn’t the dark blue of Linhardt’s eyeliner or the loose strand of hair that has fallen _just so_ from his bun. “I… understand if you would not want to spend time with me. You must have other things to do, after all! There was that, um, anatomy exam you were talking about—”

“Ferdinand.” Linhardt reaches over to touch his hand, just the barest brush of his fingers, but Ferdinand feels the heat of his skin anyway. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.” Ferdinand looks down at their hands. Linhardt doesn’t move away, and neither does Ferdinand. “I… I’m sorry. I’m used to… I mean… Well, you know what I mean.”

Linhardt shrugs. “I’ve been there. But I always like spending time with you, okay? Really,” he adds, a familiar teasing tone sneaking into his voice, “we’ve spent enough time around each other that you shouldn’t worry.”

Ferdinand smiles, half-involuntarily. “Yes! But, well. To answer your earlier question, I… was looking for my father.” He pauses, casting another glance out at the crowd, but still no familiar face. He supposes he shouldn’t have bothered. “I was thinking… if I got to see him tonight, I could maybe, just maybe, say something to convince him about his behavior.”

“Huh.”

“Er. What do you think?” Ferdinand fiddles with his hair—it’s become something of a nervous habit, now that it’s grown long enough that he doesn’t even have to reach up very much to touch it anymore.

Linhardt shrugs again. “I’m thinking he seems more like a Shakespeare sort of person, so if he shows up expecting that and gets _The Greatest Showman,_ of all things, I might not be able to hold back my laughter. Warn me if you see him, will you?”

The show starts a few minutes after that, and Ferdinand excitably settles in his seat (Linhardt, on the other hand, doesn’t bother hiding his yawn). Throughout the performance, Ferdinand recognizes some of the other actors Dorothea tells him about—Annette as Charity, a disgruntled Lysithea as Caroline, Claude very clearly living it up as Barnum, Marianne somehow reaching Jenny Lind’s high notes. Ferdinand even manages to spot Leonie from the tech crew during the blackout scenes, lifting up a set piece twice her size and sprinting across the stage without a sweat.

And, of course, when a rope drops from the ceiling and the lights slowly come on to shine on Dorothea—

“Oh, of _course,_ ” Linhardt mutters under his breath, “of course, your best friend absolutely has to get your favorite song too.”

“It’s a _good song,_ ” Ferdinand argues.

“Maybe, but their romance has _zero depth._ ” Yuri as Phillip walks on stage just then, to the tittering of half the audience.

Ferdinand frowns. “You are… unfortunately correct. But I still find it inspiring! That they defied previously-set rules and unfair standards set by society for their love. Throwing away everything they used to know for each other…”

Linhardt gives Ferdinand a look from beneath his lashes. “Even if Zac Efron had to go against his parents’ wishes? And love someone he thought he never would?”

“Of course,” Ferdinand murmurs, just as the beginning notes of the song start up. The way Linhardt is looking at him is making his heart skip and scamper at a jackhammer pace, threatening to rip itself out of his chest. “Especially because of that.”

Ferdinand ends up bawling at _From Now On_ (Linhardt throws him a single crumpled sheet of tissue and pretends not to know him for the rest of the show), but thankfully he manages to get the redness out of his face during the curtain call so he doesn’t look like a complete mess when he runs up to the stage and hands Dorothea her obnoxiously giant bouquet of roses. She laughs and says something lost in the roar of applause from the crowd for her, but Ferdinand is content with seeing her smile.

When he returns to his seat, Linhardt is staring fixedly down at his nails again, but now it just looks like he needs something to look at other than Ferdinand. “Um… Linhardt? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Linhardt sighs. “It was a good show, don’t worry.”

“But you look—” Ferdinand blinks, and the past several hints all come back to him. “Do you dislike Dorothea?”

“What?” Linhardt frowns. “No, it’s… it’s nothing like that, Ferdinand. She hasn’t done anything to me.”

“But…” Ferdinand wracks his head for any other evidence he can remember of Linhardt being annoyed whenever Dorothea is around or brought up—their first meeting, the subsequent mentions of her, his current expression—

_This Dorothea. Is she the one you drunk-kissed before?_

_He probably did the whole hair-thing because he was—_

Ferdinand feels his jaw drop involuntarily. “Are you _jealous?_ ”

“Huh—what? No!” Linhardt sputters, but a suspicious red has already begun to color his cheeks. Linhardt doesn’t blush easily outside of Certain Activities, which is why Ferdinand knows he has, for some reason, hit the nail on the head for this one. “Why would you think that. You… You’re hypothesizing. No, you’re making assumptions. No, you…” He trails off. “I can’t think of another synonym.”

“Jumping to conclusions?” Ferdinand suggests.

“Yes! That. You’re jumping to conclusions.” Linhardt crosses his arms and huffs. By this point the curtain call has ended, and people are beginning to vacate their seats, but Ferdinand doesn’t plan on giving this conversation up. “Why would I be jealous? There’s nothing to be jealous of. I mean… you’re just friends. _We’re_ just friends. Haha. Silly Ferdinand.”

“Linhardt.” Ferdinand can barely hear himself over the rush of blood in his veins, the thud of his heart like the thud of a guillotine coming down. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Just like that Linhardt sighs, the nervous expression falling away in favor of an exhausted one instead. “Fine,” he snaps, “maybe I _am_ jealous. What’s it to you?”

“W-What—”

“Not that it matters.” Linhardt abruptly stands up, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Let’s just not talk about this, alright? It’s not important.”

Ferdinand scrambles to get up as well, forcing his legs to respond and catch up to Linhardt rapidly walking away from him. (There’s something about the sight of Linhardt’s back, getting further and further, that makes his heart twist and squeeze in pain as if constricted by a snake. Is this what Linhardt sees every morning when Ferdinand has to leave?) “No! Linhardt, of course this is important.”

“It really isn’t,” Linhardt grumbles.

He doesn’t stop walking, and for a person who spends half the week unmoving in bed, he can be impressively fast when he wants to be—so Ferdinand does the first thing he thinks of and grabs Linhardt’s wrist, pulling him back and forcing him to face him. Linhardt yelps—like this, with Ferdinand’s thumb pressing against the inside of his wrist, he can feel Linhardt’s heartbeat racing away under his touch.

“Linhardt,” Ferdinand says. He doesn’t think he can ever tire of saying Linhardt’s name, or seeing Linhardt’s face, or holding Linhardt’s hand. “It’s important. You’re important.”

Linhardt stares at him. Even in heels, he still has to look just slightly up to meet Ferdinand’s eyes, and Ferdinand doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss Linhardt more than right this moment. “W… What are you—”

“Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand jerks his head up. Immediately taking two steps back when he sees who had spoken is the tamest reaction he’s had in a while. “F… Father.” Linhardt instantly tears his hand away from Ferdinand’s, but Father’s eyes follow the movement all the same. “You came after all. I… didn’t see you.”

Father scoffs. The sound, so ingrained in Ferdinand’s memory, makes him want to take several more steps back until he’s a safe distance away from it. “Why would I take time out of my schedule to watch something like _this?_ A performance for commoners, by commoners. Tell me, did not a single word of mine stay in that head of yours? I thought I told you to stop associating with that girl. And what have you done with your hair?”

“That’s—I—”

The words tremble and die on his tongue before Ferdinand can arrange them into coherent sentences. Frustration rumbles in his veins—it’s _always_ been like this, he’s _always_ been too scared to speak up even when he knew he had to, even when he knew it was the right thing to do, and even after all these years Ferdinand still feels like a child, barely half his father’s height, struggling to say something through the blubber of tears after a scolding. _Why?_ some voice inside him screams— _Why can’t you say anything? Why can’t you be useful for once?_

Father harrumphs and turns his gaze on Linhardt next, but instead of shying away like Ferdinand, Linhardt’s eyes narrow and his expression steels into one Ferdinand has never seen on him before. “And you are? Another _friend_ of my son, I take it?”

“It’s Linhardt _Hevring,_ actually,” Linhardt drawls, sounding nothing like how Ferdinand has grown used to—he speaks like every bit the dangerous aristocrat he was raised to be. “Though being a _commoner_ just to spite you sounds terribly tempting right now.”

Father’s eyes widen at _Hevring._ “Ah! Young Linhardt, I haven’t seen you since you were a boy,” he says, shuffling forward. Linhardt’s stone-cold gaze falters, the mask cracking to show uncertainty, and something in Ferdinand snaps. “Yes, I… I know your father. A great man, very—”

“Very _what,_ Father?” Ferdinand interrupts. The change in tone, the way he goes straight from scathing to simpering—“Influential? Intelligent? _Rich?_ That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it?”

“F—”

“For the past twenty-odd years I’ve let you step all over me,” Ferdinand nearly shouts—if he wants his father to stop speaking, he’ll simply have to speak louder, something he had never dared do before. “I always let you be whenever you got caught up in some brand new scandal. I always let you be when you dictated what I do and who I am. I always let you be when you abuse the people you promised to protect!”

“ _Ferdinand,_ ” Father hisses, eyes darting back and forth at the people around them beginning to whisper amongst themselves, “surely we can take this elsewhere—”

“Why?” Ferdinand asks, now full-on yelling. “Frightened your reputation will be even more tarnished than it already is? I refuse to stand for it any longer, Father. I would sooner cut off my hand than turn into someone like you, into a—a thief and a liar and a… a…”

“An overall terrible person,” Linhardt whispers.

“An overall terrible person!”

Father gives up on whatever facade of patience he had been keeping on for their growing audience, stepping closer to snarl, “How dare you. Half my life I raised you, taught you all you should know—”

“The only thing you _taught me_ is everything I swear to never become,” Ferdinand returns. “You can give up the delusion that I will ever succeed you in anything, Father. Because I… I want to become someone who helps people! I am tired of watching you use your ill-earned privilege to crush the voices of those you dislike. I want to use mine to uplift them! I… I want to…”

_They always speak the truth, always protect the people—_

“I want to be a lawyer!”

Ferdinand has to force himself to maintain eye contact, but it’s worth it when he sees the exact expression his father makes—the shock, the anger, emotions Ferdinand had always scrambled to appease but now only feels pure and utter _vindication_ at the sight of them. “Ferdinand—”

“And!” Ferdinand grabs Linhardt’s hand, pulling him stumbling forward, and very clearly entwining their fingers. “I like men! So there!”

Linhardt looks caught between being completely speechless and on the edge of devolving into hysterical laughter. Ferdinand can’t blame him—the stupefied look on his father’s face is hilarious.

Before Father can say anything else, Ferdinand snaps out a, “Goodbye, Father,” and turns around, beating a hasty retreat to the backstage of the auditorium and dragging Linhardt behind him. Strictly speaking, the backstage is _technically_ off-limits to non-drama club members, but Ferdinand has also been in there more times than he can count by this point, and Professor Manuela has never much cared for following the rules. 

Ferdinand thinks he can say the same for himself, right now.

“What was that?” Linhardt laughs, once they skid to a stop behind some platforms and poles. Noise is coming from deeper in backstage, but Ferdinand can save his congratulations to Dorothea for a little later. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Me neither,” Ferdinand numbly replies. Now that he’s actually gone and done it, all the second thoughts are starting to flood his head: What is Father going to do now? What is _Ferdinand_ going to do now? Father is probably going to cut off all relations with him after that, something-something not wanting him as his son—“Was that too much? Did I make a big deal out of nothing?”

Linhardt snorts. “I think you reacted a perfect amount. In my humble opinion, it would have been much better if you had punched him too.”

“What? No! Linhardt, that’s just wrong!”

“You’re right, my opinion is never humble,” Linhardt says, a smile curling at the ends of his lips. “But in all seriousness, I… am proud of you for speaking up.”

Ferdinand blinks. “Really?” Only now does he notice he’s still holding Linhardt’s hand, their fingers laced together far too intimately for two friends, but he doesn’t want to let go _now_ of all times. At least Linhardt doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.

“I mean, you sounded like you’ve needed to say all that for a while.” Linhardt shrugs. “Congrats on figuring out you want to be a lawyer? Even if that sounded like a decision made in the heat of the moment. Anyway, it’s good to tell people what you want them to know.”

“Ah…” Ferdinand’s lucky Linhardt can’t see his blush, because he can feel the heat in his cheeks growing stronger. “Well—what about you, Linhardt?”

“What… about me?”

“What will you do about your own father?”

“Oh. Him.” Linhardt sighs, tightening his grip on Ferdinand’s hand— _oh._ He noticed. He’s not letting go. He’s not… letting go. “Well, you know… I don’t have to do anything about it right now, do I? Maybe someday I’ll yell at his face like you did. Or it’ll just fix itself in the future and save me a lot of effort.” He pauses. “Whatever should happen will happen. That’s fine, isn’t it?”

Ferdinand swallows. “Linhardt…”

“Why do you sound so sad?” Linhardt asks, a hint of amusement in his tone—he reaches up to touch Ferdinand’s face, the brush of his cold fingertips again, and Ferdinand leans into his hand like a flower to the sun. “We all deal with our problems differently. Besides, I’d love to see what he says when all his patients eventually tell him they like me more than him.”

He laughs softly under his breath again, and the little sound makes Ferdinand want to fall to his knees in worship. “Linhardt,” he says, barely keeping himself from stammering, “about telling people what you want them to know—”

“Oh, no.” Ferdinand’s slowly getting accustomed to the dark, and he can see Linhardt’s tiny smile harden into a frown. “Listen. I don’t want to talk about thi—”

“I like you!” Ferdinand blurts out, before he can think any better of it. “Please… Please go out with me!”

A pause. For a moment there is only the muted chatter of the drama club in the distance, the thud of footsteps on the stage, and the unimaginably deafening drumming of Ferdinand’s heart in his chest.

And then Linhardt very slowly pulls his hand away from Ferdinand’s. “You don’t want me.”

“What? Lin—”

“ _Listen,_ Ferdinand,” Linhardt cuts in, voice sharp but not angry, more harried than anything, “most of the time I’m unnecessary baggage, alright? I—I annoy everyone I’ve ever been in a relationship with, no one’s ever stayed longer than for a little while because there’s always something _wrong_ with me, like—I talk too much about things people don’t care about—”

“What about me?” Ferdinand counters, stepping closer and taking Linhardt’s wrist again. “I always listen.”

Linhardt averts his gaze, staring pointedly down at his shoes. “I… I sleep too much. I’m lazy and irresponsible and I don’t care about things that don’t interest me—”

“No, you aren’t.” Ferdinand reaches up to, very gently, turn Linhardt’s face back to look at him. “You’re not lazy or irresponsible or anything. I’ve seen you with things you _do_ care about, and you are far from either of those things. I like it when you get excited about what you’re interested in.”

With his hand on Linhardt’s cheek, Ferdinand can both see and feel Linhardt’s blush beginning to creep up his face. “T-That’s… I… I’m not… I’m not nice, I’m awful to people, I-I—”

“Maybe you are.” Ferdinand joins their fingers together again, squeezing tight. “Just a little bit. But I don’t mind, because there’s nothing wrong with you. You are just… Linhardt. And I like you as you are.”

For a second Linhardt can only stare at him, blue eyes wide, before he huffs and says, “You know what? Fine. But you—you better not leave me as soon as you get tired of me. First you have to write me a five-paragraph essay, at _least,_ to explain yourself and your reasons—”

He’s interrupted by Ferdinand surging forward and kissing him.

Linhardt tastes of the chocolate he had for a snack a while ago, of the cheap milk tea from the vending machine he frequents, of bread and milk and the city lights at night, of packed lunches and the first rays of the sunrise—he tastes _sweet,_ tastes like a smoke blue sky, like angelica tea, like sleep-warm blankets tangled around two pairs of legs. Like everything Ferdinand had never known he had wanted.

When Ferdinand pulls back, only remembering he needs oxygen to, in fact, keep living, Linhardt is blinking dazedly up at him. “I… I thought you wouldn’t… kiss someone you don’t…”

“Yes. I wouldn’t.” Ferdinand takes a deep breath, reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Linhardt’s ear. “So I think you know how I feel now.”

Linhardt’s trembling, and it takes a second for Ferdinand to realize what the glimmer in his eyes are. “L-Linhardt?” He’s never seen Linhardt _cry_ before, and this is almost certainly not a time for crying. Is it? Did Ferdinand do something wrong _already?_ Does he have to write that five-paragraph essay now, on the spot?

“Let’s see it,” Linhardt says, shakily. “Kiss me again, will you?”

Oh. Ferdinand breathes out a relieved laugh, then pulls him close and does as he’s commanded—Linhardt sighs into his lips, wrapping his arms around Ferdinand’s neck and tilting his head just so to deepen the kiss. Ferdinand’s brain threatens to short-circuit when Linhardt’s tongue prods at his lips, and he nearly collapses right there when he opens his mouth and lets Linhardt in, the sweetness of him dangerously intoxicating. Ferdinand presses closer, intent on severing what little distance remains between them—but underestimates the strength behind the action, because Linhardt lets out a breathy little gasp when his back hits the wall behind him.

“My,” Linhardt murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his eyes half-lidded and heady, “so you did all this just for public wall sex, huh… Ferdinand, you absolute madman…”

“What? No, wait, that was _not_ my intention—”

“It is now.” Linhardt kisses him again, just a light brush of their lips this time, then trails his mouth further down Ferdinand’s neck in a way that has Ferdinand shivering in pleasure. “But, no, I’m not that much of a thrill-seeker… I don’t have a condom right now, for one thing.”

“Great to know,” Ferdinand hisses, doing his best to keep from being distracted by the kisses Linhardt is littering down his throat.

“But it’d be a shame to let my hard work of dressing up go to waste, don’t you think?” Linhardt pouts. “Honestly, I had a feeling we’d be doing _something_ by tonight, I just didn’t think it would be like this…”

Ferdinand sighs, tilting Linhardt’s chin up so he can kiss that mouth again—when they separate he can make out the swell of Linhardt’s kiss-swollen lips, a sight he’s never seen until now and a sight he wants to see again and again and again. “Aren’t you glad it did, though?”

“I—Ferdinand, I’m trying to seduce you. Stop being cheesy.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face all the same. “Okay. Alright. Seduce me, Linhardt.”

“No, thank you,” Linhardt dryly responds, very clearly biting back a smile of his own, “the effect’s been ruined. You’ll just have to see my stockings back in my room.”

“Wait, what?” He’s actually going to _see_ the Stockings, with Garters? Ferdinand’s already on the verge of losing his mind just looking at Linhardt _now,_ he doesn’t know how he’s going to keep his head if he sees what’s underneath.

“On one condition.” Linhardt inhales, exhales, closes his eyes. “You have to stay the night.”

Ferdinand blinks. “Oh.”

“I don’t care if you have a club meeting or an early class or _whatever_ tomorrow morning. You’ll be there when I wake up. That’s final. Or else you’ll have to get started on that five-paragraph essay and I’ll have to toss my nice stockings in the laundry without them even having gotten dirty. Got it?”

“I was expecting perhaps a more difficult condition to meet, Linhardt, but this is the easiest one you could have possibly given me.”

“Considering your track record? I wanted to be safe.” Linhardt leans up for another kiss, and Ferdinand doesn’t think he can ever tire of doing this. “Now hurry up. I miss my bed.”

Ferdinand nods—he can always text Dorothea his congratulations later, and he’s sure she’d understand anyway. She’s probably going to be the one congratulating _him,_ once he tells her about this. But right now, Ferdinand doesn’t want to think about anything other than Linhardt tugging on his hand and pulling him out from backstage—just like how he had led him to the hill with the view, just like how he had led him to the second floor of Hubert’s father’s house.

Ferdinand had always followed—but this time, for the first time, he’s going to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _  
> [i’m telling you, telling you / there’s so much more than what you settled for](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9ckFrZwejA)  
>  _  
> 
> 
> bernie's short monologue in the first part is essentially just. my thoughts on my other fic right now  
> i chose the greatest showman because it's the musical my school's drama club adapted a few months ago and like ferdie i did end up bawling in from now on lmao. my other choice was fame the musical (dorothea would have been carmen, and marianne=serena) since it's like the One (1) musical i memorize the plot+characters of but it isn't as well-known and i wanted to compare rewrite the stars to ferdihardt LOL  
> oh yeah and there is just something so hilarious to me about linhardt saying zac efron with a straight face. dont mind me im delusional

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider retweeting the tweet about it to spread the word to more people! u can also follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/featherxs) for shitposting & occasional fic updates c:
> 
> this also has a short [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3j4llaCERVApiFWRFZZp0v?si=rMck9v3vSWGH-Il1y9fKZA). please forgive my cheesy taste


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